


Pictures of You

by kats_meow



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Human, F/M, Gen, Multiple Happily Ever Afters, Post-Episode: s05e22 The Gift, Quantum Leaping, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 15:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 138,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19359913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kats_meow/pseuds/kats_meow
Summary: As the Slayer, Buffy Summers has helped a lot of people in her twenty years.  But there's one person she's never gotten to help:  Buffy Summers.  When she leapt into the portal that Glory forced open, any chance to help any Buffy anywhere went with her.  Or did it?Now the lead ambassador to the Powers that Be is playing "Let's Make a Deal" with her afterlife and the leaps have only just begun.  Where will she leap to next - and will it be to heaven?  Or will the next leap be her leap back home?  (With apologies to one of my favorite shows next to Buffy and Angel, "Quantum Leap.")Challenge response inspired by the request from the-mini-muse for the April 2019 Challenge Month on Elysian Fields





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OffYourBird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OffYourBird/gifts).



Falling dreams.

Giles told her once that if a person dreamed she was falling, it indicated there were circumstances in her life that were causing her to feel insecure - the psychic manifestation of having literally nothing to hold on to. Dreams like these underscored the dreamer’s sense of helplessness to the whims of outside forces and were a symptom of feeling a loss of control in her waking hours. In the world of a Slayer, all Buffy could say to that was “No to the duh.”

That’s why this couldn’t have been a dream.

Instead, she felt more confident and assured than she ever had in her twenty years that this was what she’d been called to do and that her mission had finally, blessedly ended. The waves of energy that rocked her body after the dive into the portal had not so much broken her as transformed her. Inasmuch as a caterpillar is broken into a butterfly, so she sensed her former self had been remade into something new - something both lighter and stronger.

In dream diving, someone only died if they hit the ground, and Buffy could feel herself soaring over and through all the pain, the grief, the loss, the sacrifice of the past five years. No inevitable impact, no rejoining blow - only floating. Which had to mean…

“I’m not dead.”

She opened her eyes into an empty room of glowing white, on her feet and wearing the last thing she had on when she kissed Dawn goodbye, though her clothes and her whole body had been wiped clean of blemish and injury as though she’d been reset.

“What, I haven’t successfully completed this level? Ready again player one?” she demanded the room.

“How’d you guess?” A familiar voice spoke behind her.

“Oh, God.” Buffy rolled her eyes. “Not you. Please not you.”

She turned and her heart sank. Whistler.

“Sorry, kid.” He shrugged.

“That was a sweet swan dive you made down there,” he noted, making a low sound in accordance with his name. “It worked, too. Portal’s closed and adios apocalypse.”

“Down there? Which means I’m up here, which means…” She spun around looking for signs. “Heaven?”

“This isn’t heaven.” Whistler scowled. “Why you humans think heaven’s gotta be up somewhere, huh? Heaven’s everywhere. It isn’t so much a place as a feeling.”

“Great. More riddles. Exactly how I wanted to spend my afterlife. So what feeling am I missing here?”

“No, I’m pretty sure you got it. Like before you opened your eyes?”

Buffy paced along the space that felt not quite solid but not really unsteady, either.

“Sounds weird, but I’d never felt more alive,” she whispered. “I was warm ... and I was loved ... and I was finished. Complete.”

“But you didn’t land.”

Buffy looked at him. “No.”

“Then sorry, Slayer. You’re not done.”

“Right,” she said bitterly, throwing her hands up in frustration. “Of course I’m not.”

“Look, you can rest here as long as you want. Me, if I was you? I’d want a rest, sure. But…” He hesitated. “There’s a lot more out there for you.”

_Ready again player one._

Buffy stalked over to him. “You know what? There really isn’t. I saved the world. A lot. That has to count for something. That has to mean that when I sacrifice my life, I can be finished.”

Whistler stared at her. “Why? Because you say so?”

“Well...” She thought for a moment. “Yeah!”

He chuckled. “Man, what you don’t get about the universe is a lot. There’s no such thing as fair, Slayer. There’s no list of people you need to save or number of apocalypses you call off and you’re done. It doesn’t work that way.”

“Then how does it work? What lessons am I missing, huh? I buried my mom”—her voice quavered—“I-I almost lost my sister. I’ve given up guys I’ve loved - all the while fighting for some greater good that isn’t even guaranteed.”

“Yeah.” He smiled. “You’ve been one great Slayer. Maybe even the best ever.”

“Which gets me what? Some hell of a purgatory?”

Whistler looked confused. “I didn’t know you were Catholic, Slayer.”

“I-I’m not,” she stammered, feeling rattled. “I just don’t know what else to call this. It’s the place between being alive and going to heaven and what, you’re telling me I’ve got tests to take? Or maybe I’ve got to flip through magazines in the Promised Land’s Waiting Room, listening to The Girl from Ipanema on Muzak for a millennia. Then I get to move on?”

“Nah.” He shook his head. “That’s not what this is. You can go to heaven - if you want.”

“Thank God,” Buffy breathed. “Or whoever,” she amended, holding up a hand. “Not about to tick off any other deities here. So I wait out this whatever and I go to heaven or…what’s behind door #2?”

“You go home.”

“Home?” she repeated, knowing she looked as shocked as she felt. “Like back to Sunnydale home? Like jump back on the chain gang of slayage and carnage and moody little sisters and bad health insurance and bills and impending hellmouth doom? That home?”

“Yeah, but it was gonna sound a lot better the way I was gonna say it.” Whistler frowned.

“Oh, sorry, my complete bad,” Buffy replied sarcastically. “You don’t actually live my life so I thought I’d do you a solid and give you the Cliff’s Notes on what ‘going back home’ means for me.”

“Man, you really were done,” Whistler said sympathetically.

“Are you kidding me?” Her chin quivered. “I couldn’t have jumped if I wasn’t.”

He clapped his hands together and looked at her pleadingly. “Can I at least try to sell you on this deal?”

She rolled her eyes. “Since I’m apparently stuck with no choice here, have at it.”

“You go back for the next good vs. evil battle. Which you can win.” He put his hands up as though to dodge a blow. “You get to do it with everything you’ve learned from what you’ve done here. I’m not sayin’ it’s gonna be easy. What I’m sayin’ is, you’re gonna be prepared - in a way that being only the Slayer ain’t ever gonna cut.”

“Who needs what from me and for how long?” she asked and folded her arms.

He grinned. “See, I knew you were gonna say something like that! You help a lot of people. But there’s one person you never really get to help.” He paused. “Buffy Summers.”

Buffy glared at him. “Where were you during my whole sacrifice speech? What are you saying needs to happen - time travel? You rewind me back and I have to make better choices?”

“Nah.” Whistler dismissed that idea with a wave. “Time travel’s too messy.”

“Then what?”

“Didn’t you ever think that there could be other Buffys out there who could really use a taste of what you got?”

Buffy wracked her brain trying to think what that could mean. “Other Buffys?”

“You know, alternate realities, parallel universes, that whole spiel.”

“Buffy the Vampire Slayer in a world without shrimp?” she wondered aloud. “Buffy the Vampire Slayer in a world with nothing but shrimp?”

“Hey! Stop it. That’s exactly what I’m talkin’ about,” Whistler exclaimed, pointing at her. “I never said ‘other Buffys’ meant other Vampire Slayer Buffys. Since you were a kid, you’ve never been able to think of yourself as anything but the Slayer.”

“Which the Powers that Be or whoever you’re the rep for ought to be pretty damn giddy about, since it’s meant me saving a shit ton of lives,” she snapped.

He put his hands up again in surrender. “Yeah, yeah, we’re grateful, okay? But like I said, doesn’t mean it’s fair. Doesn’t mean the scales are balanced.”

“So you’re saying I need to jump into these other Buffys’ skins and what, dust their vampires and close their portals?”

“No, man.” Whistler shook his head. “That’s the last thing they need you to do. The strength you got ain’t just for those big moments. What they need is what you’ve got that helps get you through every day.” He paused. “That’s what’s even more important in the end, if you can wrap your head around that.”

Other Buffys. If there had been a chair in the empty room, Buffy would’ve long sunk into it.

“Who are we talking about here? Dragon Buffy? Zombie Buffy? Ant colony Buffy?”

“There’s plenty of regular human dimensions, you know. Most of ‘em with a Buffy Summers who’s wrecked in some way. Each one can teach you something about life, about the livin’ that happens past the age of twenty. If you choose to go to heaven, that’ll be something you’re never gonna get the chance to have, right?”

Buffy thought for a moment. When it came to fighting the creatures and forces of darkness, she’d lived it up. When it came to living like a regular person, though, not so much.

“Yeah.” She nodded.

“If you choose to go back home and fight again, I guarantee what you learn will be something you can use.”

“Just not in a ‘wow, I never thought a crossbow could be used like that’ way, I take it,” she said drily.

He gave her a rueful grin and shook his head. “It may not sound like it, but this is a sweet gig. No one gets to go back and help their other selves except the heroes.”

“Multiple reincarnations really weren’t high on my list for things to have multiples of,” she mumbled.

“Slayer, you still got it wrong,” Whistler complained. “Straight up reincarnation takes lifetimes and you don’t get to keep your memories or your original self. You gotta start over every time. With you? You’re jumpin’ in right at a pivotal point where you can make a difference. When you figure out the Buffy’s damage and get her to fly right, you move on to the next.”

“Lather, rinse, and repeat until insane,” Buffy sighed.

“No, like I said. There ain’t no list you gotta check off. No one’s keepin’ score. You know you’re done when you’re back here. Then you can choose.”

Buffy squinted through the brightness toward where Whistler was now pointing and saw two white doors with gold handles gradually come into focus.

“Aww, did you pop those out just for me?” Buffy asked, batting her eyelashes. “That’s sweet. You even put the numbers on them.”

“What can I say, Slayer?” He grinned. “You’re worth it. Look.” He turned serious. “You think this is a punishment - don’t. Get all you can out of where you are and who you’re with. It’s only gonna help you.”

“Help me fight or help me rest in peace?”

“You’re a smart kid,” Whistler grunted. “Both. So whadaya say? You in? Or you hangin’ out here for eternity?”

Buffy began to pace again, feeling her heart race.

“If I do this…” She shook her head. “I don’t know how to do this. These Buffys and their lives. How will I know where they live, how they talk, what they eat, where they work…”

“Trust ‘em. They’re you!” He laughed and slapped her a little too jovially on the shoulder.

She glared first at his hand and then at him. “Have we just met? Because you should clue in to the idea that this Buffy and any version of me, I’m betting, would kick the first intruder into her consciousness into next Tuesday.”

Whistler barely shrugged. “You say that like it’s never happened.”

An icy shiver of dread went down her back. “What?”

“Slayer, there’s all kinds of consciousnesses. There’s that little voice inside your head that tells you ‘don’t go down that street, looks sketchy.’ Or in the case of you, ‘hell yeah, go down that street, kick ass!’ You’ve got a gajillion years of Slayers stacked up inside of you, all telling you what to do, where to go, what to kill.”

“It’s called instinct.”

“I’m sayin’ you can put the Slayer voices to work for another Buffy. You can live like a regular girl and they can have the strength of a Slayer without ever having to be Called to it.”

“So you’re saying I’m going to be the little voice in Buffy’s head that’s telling her what to do.”

“Nice change, don’t you think? You callin’ the shots instead of the Slayer callin’ ‘em for you?”

She chewed on her lip. “‘Nice’ might be pushing it, but I see your point. You really don’t think these Buffys are gonna wig?”

Solemnly, he made an “x” over his heart with his index finger.

“Look, if you’re really trippin’, yell for me. I can guide you three times. Then, no matter what, you gotta muddle through on your own. So use me wisely.” He held out his hands to her. “Truth time, Slayer, what’s it gonna be?”

Buffy took another look around. She could stay in the bare white room in her clean white sweater and… sit. Forever. Buffy could see that getting old after a nap or five. The place didn’t even have cable.

Door #1 had a padlock on it. Her happily ever after - whenever she finished whatever the next round of Slay the Slayer looked like.

Which left only one real option.

“Gee, Monty. I guess I gotta go with whatever’s behind door #2,” she sighed and looked up warily. “Heaven help me.”

“Don’t worry, Slayer.” Whistler winked. “We will.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to our first contestant, Buffy #1!

“Ms. Summers? A-are you awake?”

Laying on her left side in what felt like a bed, covers pulled up to her chin, Buffy opened her eyes to swirls of blurry, flat flowers. A garden?

Nope, not a garden.

Gardens didn’t smell like antiseptic and industrial disinfectant. Hospital, Buffy registered immediately. Enough days and nights with Mom meant she could identify that odor in her sleep. Or with really bad eyesight, which this Buffy definitely had. It took a moment for her to realize the flowers were pinned and taped almost entirely over the yellow painted wall she faced.

Buffy sat up and realized that she did so very slowly. She could almost hear her joints creak in protest. Sheesh, did I get hit by a bus, or what? Through the haze of this Buffy’s spectacular myopia, her eyes relaxed enough to see that every flower was a card or a folded note. There had to be over one hundred of them. Behind Buffy, the girl who’d spoken adjusted window blinds and sunlight filtered in. Some of the flowers had glitter on them and caught the reflecting sunbeams. Of all things to possibly wake up to in a frightening new reality, this would be hard to top for being…

“So beautiful,” she whispered in a voice almost like hers. Almost, except maybe a little deeper and hoarse. Raspy. God, hopefully this Buffy didn’t have a raging nicotine addiction in addition to her other injuries.

“You say that every morning,” the girl behind her laughed. “And I have to agree with you. You made this a wonderful way to wake up. Well, at least until you can get back to your own garden.”

Still staring at the flowers, Buffy startled when the girl reached her elbow.

“Glasses first? Or hair first?”

Buffy looked up.

“Tara!” she said in happy surprise. Thankfully, the hospital name tag said the same name.

“Morning!” Tara smiled. It looked exactly like Buffy’s own Tara down to the little braids she liked to weave through her hair - except this Tara had been outfitted in turquoise hospital scrubs. “Did you sleep well?”

“Crazy dreams,” Buffy muttered, trying in vain to clear her throat. “Uh, glasses would probably be good here.”

Tara stepped to Buffy’s bedside and picked up a funky pair of purple framed specs and grinned as she set them on Buffy’s face. There. That was more like it. The world came into crystal clear view.

“I love those on you. You are the coolest chick I know,” Tara told her. “Okay. You want your hair down today or swept up?”

Her nerves still so raw, being with Tara was a balm. Probably every Tara in every reality was kind. Buffy bathed in the goodwill of her best friend’s girlfriend’s doppelgänger and closed her eyes. “Surprise me.”

She felt Tara’s fingers unwind what felt to be a very long braid behind her back and brush the hair in steady, relaxing strokes. While Tara worked on her hair, Buffy took inventory of the rest of her body.

If she didn’t know better, she would’ve thought that she’d been saddled down with 20 lb weights. Every move, even shifting around in while sitting on the bed, seemed to take a huge effort. Everything ached, too. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so sore, from her hips not liking the feel of the mattress under her, to her neck feeling in bad need of a good crack, to her hands that throbbed at her wrists and knuckles. Don’t they pass out the good drugs in the hospitals in this world?

“Okay, you can take a look. I-if you don’t like it, I can redo it but I think it looks gorgeous.”

Buffy opened her eyes to Tara holding a hand mirror in front of her and nearly shrieked at the image.

Not because of the hair - the hair looked super. It cascaded down her shoulders in beautiful waves, separated at the cowlick on the left of her scalp where she used to part her hair years ago, with one of Tara’s signature braids snaking through. It did look gorgeous.

And white.

Buffy’s hair was completely white.

She totally was not pulling a Cordelia, truly. If Whistler had perhaps eased her in to seeing 30s Buffy first, then segueing to 50s Buffy, she would’ve been more prepared for geriatric Buffy. Dropping the hammer straight from 20 to 70, though, gave her a hell of a jolt.

Once the shock wore off, Buffy touched her face with transfixed wonder. The sun had definitely taken its toll on her - she had liver spots on her temples and - gazing at her shaking hands with the prominent blue veins - scattered across her tanned, wrinkled, and ringless fingers. Her neck had gone full wattle and her lips were dry and colorless, the skin around them etched with fine fissures. The corners of her eyes were a cacophony of laugh lines.

“Yeesh, nothing’s that funny,” she muttered.

But it was her - her own face after a lot more years of living and no Calling. Years that no Slayer would likely ever experience. She wondered if any Slayer had ever found one white hair or wrinkle before she’d died.

Some forgotten words of her mother’s floated up to her consciousness then: getting old is a privilege denied to many.

“You’d know, Mom,” Buffy whispered and sudden tears filled her eyes.

“Hey, Ms. Summers, are you okay?” Tara had taken the mirror away and put her hands on Buffy’s shoulders, peering earnestly into her face. “I-if it’s bad, it’s just hair, I can fix it.”

“No, Tara, I love it. It’s…” She caught her breath. “Sometimes I can’t help but think of my mom. I would’ve loved to see her at this age.”

Tara nodded. “I understand. My mom died when I was young, too.”

“I know,” Buffy replied without thinking. Then: “I mean, I’m sorry.” She wiped her eyes behind her glasses. “Hey,” she tried gamely, glancing down at the blousy white cotton nightgown she wore. “Any way you can help me find some clothes?”

“Um, sure,” Tara said, looking puzzled. “You really want to?”

“Of course I - ”

“Hey, Ms. Summers,” came a familiar voice from the doorway. “Knock, knock.”

Buffy turned to see Willow - looking exactly like her Willow with those little side tendrils of hair pulled back and wearing dark pink colored scrubs.

“Ooh, I love your hair all long like that,” Will smiled. “You are definitely the hottest ticket at the Maple Court Community Home.”

“Ms. Summers said that she wants to get dressed today,” Tara piped up.

Willow’s mouth opened in happy surprise. “You mean it? You’ll come to PT and everything?”

“Well, sure,” Buffy frowned. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Why wouldn’t…?” Willow shook her head with a grin. “You’re such a kidder. Okay, breakfast now or after the big workout?”

Buffy shrugged. “After’s okay.”

“Yes!” Willow raised her fists in a cheer. “Tara, you get her ready and I’ll get the chair and we can - ”

Crash!

Both Tara and Willow looked out the door in alarm.

“Uh-oh, I didn’t think he’d be back from psych so soon,” Willow muttered. “Come on, Tara. We better check it out. Ms. S…” Will pointed at her. “Hold that thought. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

The two nurses took off at a jog in their matching running shoes as another crash echoed from down the hall, followed by the bellowing of a clearly angry male resident: “Leave me alone!"

“So not a hospital,” Buffy noted. “Nursing home. Great. Whistler, you are so dead meat.”

At least the activity in the hallway gave her a few minutes to herself.

Except for her wall of flowers and a pretty patchwork quilt at the foot of the bed, the room looked to be standard issue hospital fare.

“And about those flowers,” Buffy said, leaning over and adjusting her glasses so she could make out some of the inscriptions.

This Buffy Summers had a Calling, too, apparently - to teaching. Made a career from the looks of it, with students talking about memories from kindergarten, third, and fifth grades, as well as a few notes gushing that they wished their “favorite principal” a speedy recovery.

“Other me was a principal? Now I don’t care who you are, that’s just funny,” Buffy mused. Her eyes drifted to the foot of the bed where she saw a metal sleeve and a box attached. That’s exactly where the doctors had kept her mother’s medical charts.

“Time to find out all about you, Principal Buffy,” she muttered and made a move to ease herself up to standing from the bed. Except she couldn’t move.

Then a lightning bolt of pain cracked through the lower half of her body with such immediate and surprising force, Buffy had to clutch the blankets and bite the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming out loud.

She blinked and gasped through the agony. She even looked to see if some horrible dietician named Glory had come in to take her lunch menu and decided to start pounding on her with a troll hammer for absolutely no reason, because that’s as close as she could come to describing the pain for herself. Then as she tried to reach a sitting position again, her vision blurred and she lost all reference points.

Buffy had never felt true unbearable pain before. It was debilitating, unnerving, and terrifying. It made her want to curl up in a whimpering ball and hide. Which, as she squinted and tried to breathe through the stabs and twinges, this Buffy must’ve been doing if Tara and Willow were celebrating her decision to get dressed and out of bed today.

_You can’t do it. It’s worthless. Don’t even bother._

The voice came from so deep within her, Buffy swore she must be hearing her conscience and for a moment, agreed wholeheartedly with the sentiment. The hell with it. Have the girls help her crawl back into bed and she’d stare at her pretty flowers all day. Surely they’d bring her some food in a while. Maybe even a cookie. She could nap, catch up on soaps. There could be worse things to do with her time, like dusting vampires and getting lambasted by hell gods, for instance.

As the pain retreated into something resembling a cornered, seething animal, Buffy’s head cleared. She knew that voice and she had to address it.

“Hey Buffy? It’s Buffy. Hi.”

_So you’re the Slayer. My warrior side. I’ve heard you before but never as strongly as I do now. What’s the what?_

“You need me. Big time.”

_I do, do I?_

“Okay, more to the point, we need each other.”

_I’m listening._

“I’m sorry to screw your life up but we really need to move things along here. Look, you’re amazing. You’ve lived longer than I ever will, first of all. You’ve got, like, a lifetime’s worth of a fan club on your wall, and I don’t know exactly how old you are - but you’ve got killer taste in what could’ve been boring old lady glasses, plus your hair rules. PT is no big, I promise. We can do this. We’ve got to do this.”

Inner Buffy went silent for a moment. Then: _Listen little miss positive reinforcement chick. My body, my rules. You want me to move, you’re gonna have to make me._

“Gee,” she smiled to herself. “You make it sound like we don’t enjoy a challenge or something.”

“Oh, Ms. Summers!” Willow cried, running back into the room. “Hey, Tara,” she called. “Get the chair.” Willow turned back to Buffy. “See, this is why physical therapy is always of the good.”

Buffy gritted her teeth as Willow effortlessly helped her to a sitting position again.

“You don’t have to tell me twice. The pain is just…”

“I know,” Will looked at her helplessly. “You’re, like, all locked down and stiff from bailing on your exercises. You can’t have double hip and knee replacements…”

“Double?!” Buffy couldn’t help but bellow. “My God, what kind of insurance do I have?”

Tara appeared with her sweet, clumsy grin. “For all your years of teaching and coaching, probably the best.”

“Coaching,” Buffy wondered aloud, and let the girls get on either side of her ease her to standing. She could feel her inner Buffy balk and she tried to talk her down - Relax, would you? Let them help you for once.

Right, because that comes so easily for you.

“And you’ll never get back to it if you don’t do your exercises,” Tara scolded her gently while they half dragged, half carried her to the waiting wheelchair by the doorway.

“Tara,” Willow muttered sharply and Buffy saw a quick, silent negotiation full of pursed lips and meaningful eye movements. Will cleared her throat.

“Tara’s gonna help you get dressed and bring you to me, okay?” She knelt down in front of Buffy. “I’m not gonna lie. This is gonna really hurt for a while. But I’ll work my magic, I promise.”

 ***

Buffy tried to keep her mind on all the questions she had about this Buffy’s life to try to distract her from the pain of physical therapy, right down to wondering if she had packed a laptop and what kind of search engines this reality had, but with little success.

It felt like a demon had invaded her under her skin and had shredded her muscles with razor sharp claws. Her bones ached like they’d been gnawed upon and she got an up-close and all-too-personal view of what her body would be like without the magic of Slayer resiliency and healing. Then it dawned on her: these human Buffys would be spared all of her beatings, all of the responsibility heaped upon her as the Slayer; in return, she would be spared all of their physical pangs. As for emotional ones, that seemed to be a toss-up.

Inner Buffy mourned someone. She felt angry and resentful and rather cheated. She thought that giving up suited her absolutely fine and that it was high time, as well, to take a break.

“You might’ve gotten away with that when you were thirty, Coach, but not with one foot in the grave - no offense,” Buffy muttered, putting her head back in the glorious hot water of the “aqua therapy” bath that, she made Willow double check, absolutely was covered by her insurance. Blanching at the mountain of Mom’s medical bills had given her serious pause.

“Now that you’re doing PT again, you’re gonna bounce back in no time,” Tara told her when she helped Buffy get dressed.

By the way, that had to be one of the most humbling experiences she’d ever had - first viewing her very unhealed, very aging body with such embarrassment that she’d had to turn away from the locker room mirror. Then having to suck up her absolute weakness that forced her to rely totally on Tara for the most basic tasks she’d once taken for granted; little things like standing, showering, putting on underwear, even using the bathroom. On this subject, both she and Inner Buffy were in perfect agreement at the wretchedness of their situation.

"You’re lucky you’re in such good shape,” Tara added.

“Yeah, right,” both Buffys scoffed, cheeks burning with repressed humiliation.

“No, I’m serious. You don’t see what I see around here. You’ve got the body of a woman at least ten years younger. Must be all the cheerleading,” she ventured.

_Cheerleading?!_

“This look okay?”

Buffy faced herself.

Tara had put her in a pretty, romantic-looking white poet’s blouse and some loose, soft chambray culottes. She slipped her pink-tipped, well-manicured toes into a pair of dressier taupe Birkenstocks and had fluffed out her hair, then applied a touch of blush and mauve lip balm with a light hand. Buffy slipped on her purple glasses and managed to smile.

Every time she looked at herself, she faced a face she could get used to. Life wouldn’t have been so bad to get old.

“Do you want me to push you out to the garden? It’s warm today and I think all the camellias came out.”

“You know,” Buffy reached her arms around the chair. “I think I’m gonna give myself a whirl.”

When she rolled past her room, she saw Willow and a male nurse in navy scrubs conferring at her doorway.

They looked at her and grinned as she went by.

“Way to go, Ms. S!” said the young man, with a thumbs up.

_Xander!_

“Thank you, Alex,” she replied, just to be contrary. Now that she had kind of the hang of her first reality, with her friends breaking her in, she didn’t think she’d freak when other familiar faces would pop up. At least, she hoped she wouldn’t.

“Um, Ms. Summers?” Willow skipped after her. “Can I, uh, talk to you for a minute? Here, I’ll push, give your arms a rest.” She smiled nervously.

Buffy knew that look and that voice. Willow had something unpleasant to discuss.

“So you might’ve heard this morning that, uh, somebody got back from the psych floor and the good news is, they’ve got him on new meds so he’s gonna be way more mellow. We hope.”

“Okay,” Buffy said warily. “I take it there’s bad news, then.”

“Well, there’s kind of a problem with getting him a room. See, he won’t have a roommate. We tried. The only single we have open is the one next door to you, where he was before.”

Before. What had happened before?

“I-I know you hated it. But now that you’re doing PT again, you probably won’t even see him that much. We can keep you busy.” They had reached the sunny entrance of a courtyard lined with lilacs and bougainvillea.

Will swung herself in front of the wheelchair and at Buffy’s feet, watching her earnestly.

“If it gets weird, we’ll figure something else out. Promise. You have so many friends here. But you’re the only one he knows. I think he gets bored and acts out. You totally can’t let him get your goat.”

“Willow, it’s not your fault. I’ll deal,” Buffy told her.

The girl’s face relaxed into relief. “I am so glad you said that! You’re like our favorite patient, ever. You want to be in the sun for a while? I’ll bring out your breakfast when it’s ready. Thanks again, Ms. S.”

“Sure,” Buffy shrugged, leaning back into the sunshine.

Inner Buffy, however, pitched a holy terror of a fit.

_The most rude, the most annoying, the most unnerving, leering, pompous excuse for a man you have ever met. You have no clue what you signed us up for here. Zilch._

“Chill,” Buffy sighed. “He’s a senior citizen. How bad can he be?”

Then she heard the pneumatic door behind her open and the sound of wheels, like hers, squeaking toward her.

“Hello, cutie.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for Buffy’s wall garden got lodged in my noggin courtesy of one of my favorite movies, “Fried Green Tomatoes.”
> 
> Spike dialogue from Buffy Season 2 Episode 22 “Becoming Part 2.”


	3. Chapter 3

No.  No. No, no, no, no, no, no.

 

Not this.  Not him. Not here.

 

Willow and Xander, sure, she could understand. Even Tara, who came courtesy of Will.  As for Dawn, she’d half expected her sister to show up as a cute little candy striper or wannabe cheerleader with a bouquet of flowers any minute, too.  Those people made sense. Not Spike.

 

Of course, Spike never made sense.

 

He especially hadn’t made much sense in the past few months.  Allowing her sister and mom sanctuary in his crypt. Professing his love for her via the misguided addition of chains and offering to slay his sire in her honor.  Driving the RV in that vain attempt to make them disappear. Protecting Dawn - all the times he protected Dawn. Up to and including that very last night, and his face under the glow of her stairwell lamp:   _I know you'll never love me. I know that I'm a monster. But you treat me like a man…_ Allowing him to fight beside her and for her, she realized, is what had made him feel like a man.

 

The hard taste of steel rose up in her throat.   _You don’t get it, hon,_ Inner Buffy told her.   _He’s irredeemable.  Trust me on that one._

 

Trust the Buffys, Whistler had advised her.   _They’re you._

 

“What the hell are you doing here?” two Buffys asked the air and then whipped the chair around because the curiosity to see how Spike might’ve aged outweighed any other emotion.

 

Whoa.

 

If she’d been expecting decrepit, she was sorely mistaken.  With that voice, in that tone, she half expected to see the man who just - what, yesterday? - plucked weapons out of her living room blanket chest.  He certainly was not him but time had been ridiculously kind to this guy. All of his hair still intact - white, short, slicked back, no big change there, lots of wrinkles around the eyes behind some darker Giles-ish frames, and the hint, the barest glimmer of a white mustache above the surly upper lip.  Outfitted stylishly - even in here! - in his grey silk dress shirt and darker grey pants, she thought AARP Spike probably still could get dates. Maybe. If only he didn’t sound and act like such an ass.

 

“So chuffed you’re happy to see me, love.  Surely you didn’t think they could keep me away from you for long.”

 

“No harm in keeping a good thought,” she said airily.

 

“Is that what that was?  Calling a psych eval on me to get me out of your well-coiffed hair?”

 

Had Buffy really done that?

 

“When you decide to start screaming at three in the morning again, next time do it in a few more pillows,” she heard herself say.  

 

“Pity you didn’t come check on me.  You could’ve seen what I was screaming about,” he murmured and lifted one eyebrow.

 

“More meds means less screaming.  That works for me,” she retorted.

 

“They can dole out all the bloody meds they want.  Not like I take ‘em.”

 

“That’s pretty dumb,” she said.  “How do you expect to get well?”

 

“‘Well,’” he drawled, rolling his eyes.  “That’s not what those drugs are for and you know it.  They won’t keep me down without a fight.”

 

“Except for those screaming nightmares.”

 

“Small price to pay to keep on bein’ me,” he smirked.

 

“Yeah, that’s a real treat,” Buffy hissed, and did her best to move away from him and toward a small fountain in the shade and ringed with daisies.

 

“I see the little witches shoved you out into the light of day. ‘Bout bloody time.”

 

Her skin prickled at that.  Were they witches in this reality for real or was this another insult ala Spike?

 

“No shoving necessary,” she said coolly.   “I came out here of my own free will. What’s your excuse?”

 

He’d had the chair much longer than she had, moved it effortlessly as though it had become an extension of himself.  Which he did now as he maneuvered around and next to her, wearing the same kind of goading smirk she’d seen in her own world oh-so many times.

 

“Fresh air of course,” he replied, and immediately lit up a cigarette from a pack he’d concealed behind his back.

 

“Which I won’t be enjoying for much longer, thanks to you,” Buffy said tightly and waved her hand in the air in protest.

 

“Please.  You should be used to it by now.  So,” he eyed her devilishly. “What you been up to with me gone?”

 

“Ever so much peace and quiet,” she replied with a serene smile.

 

“Bor-ring,” he sang.  He glanced over at her.  “You’ll never be able to walk again if you don’t let ‘em get you up once in a while.”

 

Buffy lifted her chin.  “I went to PT today, I’ll have you know.”

 

This Spike looked truly surprised and impressed.  “Good on you. Looks like I showed back up at precisely the right time.”

 

“You bet.”  She grinned.  “Watch me stand up, wave to you, and walk the hell out of here.”

 

A dark cloud passed over his face.  “You know that’s a bad idea with the maze of stairs at your place.  Next tumble could crack your rutting skull open, you stubborn old bird.”

 

“What the hell do you know, Spike?” Buffy couldn’t help but snap.  This version of him bugged her as much, if not more, than the one in her own.  But then - oh, crap - maybe he wasn’t called Spike here and he would turn her in to Tara and Willow for suspicion of dementia.

 

Instead, he sat back in his chair, puffing on that infernal cigarette and looking immensely pleased with himself.  

 

“Well, well, well.  Openin’ up the yearbooks, are we?  Haven’t heard that name in roundabout fifty years.  Thought you might’ve had a senior moment and it slipped your mind.”

 

Buffy’s mouth dropped open.  “F-fifty years? We’ve known each other fifty years.”

 

“And every day’s been a right gift with you, Slayer,” he purred.

 

What the -

 

“Whistler!” she hollered in sudden terror.

 

“Geez, really, Slayer?” He stepped out from behind a hydrangea bush looking immensely disappointed.   “On your first go?”

 

Buffy blinked.  The whole area, including this old Spike’s head tilt-leer combination had been hit by the pause button.

 

“You said there were no Slayers here.”

 

“No, I said there were no Buffy the Vampire Slayers here,” he corrected her.

 

“Then what the hell was that just now?” she cried.  “Whistler, this is seriously freaking me out. I don’t know if I can do this.  It’s bad enough that I died before I could drink legally and went straight past menopause without passing go - thanks for that, by the way.”  She gritted her teeth at him. “But all these little echoes.” She shivered. “It’s creepy.”

 

“Look, you gotta do a little digging.  There are gonna be hardcore similarities in some of these worlds.  You and your Buffys have lots in common.” He glanced at Spike with a twist to his mouth.  “Obviously.”

 

Buffy stared at the immobile Spike.

 

“How have they known each other fifty years?” she asked in awe.  “How did that even start? How do I even piece together a history like that?”

 

Whistler walked over and knelt down next to her.  “Say you had to leave your house in a hurry. Like, the next apocalypse is nippin’ at your heels and you got to get the hell out of Dodge pronto.  What goes with you? Quick.”

 

“That’s a ridiculous question,” Buffy argued, squinting against the feeling of a long-overdue headache coming on.  “We don’t have anything of real value. Clothes, sure, shoes definitely. And…” She remembered her room. Dawn’s room.  Mom’s, too. Practically on every surface scattered all over 1630 Revello Drive. “Pictures,” she realized.

 

“All the Buffys hold on to ‘em,” he said gently.  “That one I’ll give you for free. I was kinda hoping you were gonna pick that up on your own but I’ll let it slide.”

 

“You’re saying she brought photos with her in here?”

 

“I’m saying you gotta stop thinkin’ like you’re a thief in this life who’s gonna get caught.  You’re Buffy Summers. Maybe not the one you’re used to, but you can figure her out. Just like someone who poked around in your room could figure you out after a while - at least enough to get a gist.”  He chuckled. “Especially once they found your secret weapons stash.”

 

She looked down at him guiltily.  “Can I ask one more teensy question?”

 

“It’s your one outta three consults with me, Slayer.  Might as well make the most of it.”

 

“The whole physical therapy thing,” she said slowly.  “Is that part of what I needed to help her with?”

 

Whistler hesitated.  “Yeah. It’s a part.”

 

“Okay,” Buffy exhaled.  “Okay, I think I’m getting this.”

 

“You will. Then you’re gonna get zapped into the next Buffy and get knocked on your ass again.”

 

“Probably,” she sighed.  

 

“I’m glad you got to come here, Slayer.”  Whistler smiled at her. “You are one hot old broad.”

 

“And on that very awkward note,”—Buffy raised her eyebrows—“do you have any profound words of wisdom to offer that might make this whole experience a little less with the wig factor?”

 

“Have fun.  Life is meant to be enjoyed - not endured.”  

 

“Oh my God, your platitudes are showing,” Buffy said, rolling her eyes.  But Whistler had left and in another second, the breeze began again and the fountain bubbled.

 

She faced Grandpa Spike, his eyes glittering at her and daring her for the next comeback.

 

“Let’s pretend you know jack about me,” she told him coolly.  “How thrilled would I be at you calling me Slayer?”

 

He snorted.  “You serious?  Back in the day, you loved it.”

 

“Back in the day,” she repeated.

 

“Oh, come off it.  No matter how high and mighty you try to make yourself, you know of all the gits in this town, I’m the one who really knows you.”  He leaned over toward her. “I’m the only one left, pet.”

 

And something about that made her chin tremble and tears prick at the corners of her eyes.

 

The grim and sardonic set of his jaw suddenly turned regretful when he saw her face. “Fuck, Buffy.  Don’t do that, love. I didn’t mean - ”

 

But Inner Buff had no interest in an apology or explanation and could not roll away from him fast enough.

 

She almost careened right into Tara carrying her breakfast tray out to her.

 

“Ms. Summers!  You okay?”

 

Choking back a sob, she rolled directly back to her room and wished that hospital safety doors could slam.

 

_Told you so._

 

Buffy rolled over to the window and looked out.  A beautiful spring day out there, wherever she lived.  Maybe that’s what she should get on - figuring out this world and this Buffy’s place in it.

 

A soft knock came at the door and Buffy turned her head to see Tara peek in.

 

“I brought your breakfast.”

 

“Thanks,” Buffy sniffled.

 

Tara set the tray on the rolling table by the bed and adjusted it near where Buffy sat.

 

“Can I ask what happened?”

 

“He’s a jerk, same as always,” her older self blurted out.  “At least he’s consistent.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Tara.”  Buffy looked up, suddenly struck by inspiration.  “We’ve known each other for a while, right?”

 

Tara gave a surprised laugh.  “Are you kidding? I’ve known you all my life.  You’re a legend here in Sun Valley.”

 

Buffy couldn’t help but smile.

 

“What do you think his deal is?”

 

Maybe if she could understand it, she could understand how to keep the hell away from him - and how to move the hell out of this world.

 

Tara looked surprised.  “Mr. Pratt? I think you’d know that better than me.”

 

“Girl to girl,” Buffy encouraged her.  “I’d love an outside opinion.”

 

“Wow, okay.”  Tara sat on the bed and faced Buffy.  “Well, I think it’s pretty obvious he’s depressed.  His wife’s dead, his daughter lives really far away and can’t visit often, and he’s got the whole degenerative nerve disorder so he can’t live by himself anymore. For a guy who used to be really active, that’s a hard transition.”

 

“He’ll never walk again,” Buffy ventured.

 

“No.  As soon as we can get him stable, he’ll move into the assisted living apartments out back.”

 

Buffy smiled wryly.  “Good luck with that.  Him and stability aren’t exactly friends.”

 

“Growing up, I always saw him around, you know, but I never got to know him in school very well,”  Tara said. “Was he always so angry?”

 

“He couldn’t have been, right?” Buffy murmured.  

 

Tara glanced at the door, biting her lip.  “Will you show me?”

 

Buffy started.  “Show you - ?” But Tara had already turned toward the nightstand and opened the bottom drawer.  From her vantage point in the chair, Buffy could see stacks of what looked like scrapbooks there.

 

“Oh, definitely,” she breathed.  

 

Coach Buffy from the tiny village of Sun Valley, CO  (Buffy now knew) had become an avid and quite accomplished scrapbooker, going all the way back to her senior year of high school.  Buffy flipped through the pages with Tara, absolutely entranced with the story that unfolded before her.

 

Buffy Summers had been the captain, and eventual coach, of the Sun Valley Slayers cheerleading squad - well, that explained that nickname then.  She even felt a twinge of jealousy when she realized that the Slayers kicked serious ass, taking home multiple state championships over the years.  She’d attended Sun Valley University (“Go Red Devils!”), double majoring in elementary ed and physical education. At this point, a young blonde man began making his appearance in the photos.

 

“Is that him?” Tara asked, pointing to one.  This guy had longer and darker blonde hair, evident even in the sepia photo.  He had a serious James Dean vibe with the white t-shirt and black leather jacket; cigarette in one hand, beer bottle in the other, the photo showing him laughing hard at something.  

 

“Sure looks like it,” Buffy whispered.  Carefully easing the delicate photo out of its adhesive corners in the scrapbook, she turned it over to see her handwriting:  “ _Welcome to Colorado, William Pratt!_ ”

 

This Spike had been William - or this William had been Spike.  So intertwined, she couldn’t quite keep them separate. Then she wondered if she wasn’t meant to.

 

Coach Buffy had been a cheerleader for the Red Devils, too, as evidenced by her uniform.  The kids were putting the finishing touches on what looked to be a float celebrating Homecoming 1951, according to the banner they held up.

 

“He’s so handsome.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Buffy agreed.  

 

_Jerk._

 

Not too surprisingly, Buffy didn’t recognize the kids in the photos.  She wondered if anyone showed her photos from her own early days in Los Angeles, would she remember the names of any of those kids, either.  Then she turned a page and a familiar face appeared that made her stomach lurch.

 

Angel.

 

Angel looking deadly serious and uncomfortably upstanding in his tuxedo next to her in their homecoming photo.  Angel in a football jersey and shoulder pads, posing for what looked to be a proof from a yearbook photo. Angel in black sunglasses and a bucket fishing hat.

 

“Oh, do you want to stop?  I don’t want this to make you sad.  I know it’s only been a year since he…”

 

A year.  Buffy traced Angel’s face, her heart pounding.  “I’m okay.”

 

After that, she saw lots of pictures of the three of them:  Buffy, Angel, Spike. Waving from a very fifties-looking convertible.  At the bowling alley. On the shore of a beach. Holding up strings of Christmas lights on a porch.  Then finally, arm in arm in arm in front of a brick building and wearing graduation caps and gowns.

 

“I didn’t realize you guys were such good friends back then,” Tara said.

 

“It’s easy to forget,” Buffy whispered.  

 

Another turn of the page brought a feeling of such impending inevitability that Buffy could see the photo in her mind before she ever saw it in the scrapbook.

 

Her wedding.  To Angel.

 

The mementos exploded from the page - Angel’s dried boutonniere, their wedding program, their menu from Sun Valley Country Club, a brochure from the Buck Hill Inn in the Poconos where they’d apparently honeymooned, a yellowing page ripped out of a magazine that showed the details of Buffy’s dress:  “white tulle over satin gown with pearl beaded flowers adorning the fitted process style bodice, the tulle skirt, and forming the wide shoulder straps.”  

 

“You wore Dior on your wedding day,” Tara whispered in awe.

 

“Daddy walked me down the aisle,” her older self said.  “Mom had died by then and he paid for everything. He hadn’t been around much and this was his chance to make up for it.”

 

“You’re both so beautiful. And wow, Mr. Pratt was best man.”

 

“In name only, believe me,” Buffy retorted.  

 

Coach Buffy’s hair had been swept in an elegant updo with a fishnet headpiece and she clutched a simple ribboned bouquet of lilies of the valley and roses.  The men wore traditional black tuxedos. They all looked so damn serious. Even a little scared.

 

After the wedding, the three amigos still cavorted together, now all looking much more relaxed on a polished wooden speed boat, toasting champagne in black tie at a casino, sitting around a formica kitchen table with playing cards.  Eventually, another wedding photo appeared. They’d obviously reached the sixties from the length of the skirts and Coach Buffy’s bubble flip hairstyle. She and Angel were featured prominently in the photos of Spike’s wedding to a waifish brunette with a sweet smile.

 

“Mrs. Pratt was the sweetest lady ever,” Tara said.  “She taught me piano. We were all so sad when she died.”

 

Buffy swallowed hard.  She couldn’t put her finger on Inner Buffy’s feelings, they were so all over the map.  Something had definitely shifted in her from looking at the scrapbooks. Her earlier anger had softened and transformed into something akin to guilt.

 

Tara came out of her reverie with a little shake to her head.  She glanced at her watch.

 

“Darn it, I have to do rounds.  You should eat your breakfast, too, though it’s probably cold.”

 

Buffy smiled and shook her head.  “I don’t mind. Thanks for sitting with me.”

 

“Seriously?  Thank you,” Tara smiled as she stood up.  “You’ve lived an amazing life, Ms. Summers.  You are the definition of serious squad goals.”

 

_Squad goals_ , the Buffys chuckled and turned to the breakfast tray.  She lifted off the plate cover lined with moisture and picked up a lukewarm waffle, munching it while racking her brain for what more she needed to learn about this Buffy before she could move on.


	4. Chapter 4

Coach Buffy might’ve been a tad obsessive with the scrapbooking.

 

“All the better to stalk you with,” Buffy said under her breath as she reached the scrapbook full of nothing but news clippings.

 

Angel (known in this world as Dr. Liam Angelus - haha - no wonder this Buffy had kept her maiden name) had earned community award after certificate of merit for establishing the pediatric care center in Sun Valley. That explained her killer health insurance.

 

No slouch this world’s Spike, either. War vet with the RAF, rugby coach, long distance medaled runner, and high school English teacher, he’d married the high school music teacher and Buffy assumed they’d made beautiful music together with their daughter, Fiona. There were lots of pictures of Fiona’s birthday parties that were family affairs with Buffy and her good doctor.

 

Buffy knew even before she found the last article in this scrapbook that Coach hadn’t had any children. The article in the Sun Valley Herald that recognized Buffy Summers for her outstanding contributions to the town’s youth quoted her as saying that she’d taught so many students, coached so many athletes, and met so many families through her husband’s practice, she felt like she’d been a mother to hundreds of kiddos.

 

Uh-huh. She could spot a Buffy company line from a mile away. Either this self couldn’t have children, or her Angel couldn’t. Buffy’s bets were on Angel. She wondered how this Buffy had dealt with it, if she ever had regrets. Or if she needed a different kind of Slayer strength of the non-cheerleading variety to get past them.

 

Apparently, they’d practically co-raised the Pratts’ girl, Fiona, from all the pages devoted to her childhood. The pages abruptly stopped and Buffy could only guess why. Not because any events ceased in real life or the pictures they belonged to; no, this felt different. Buffy thought about how her mother stopped doing things like writing letters, working in the garden, and, yes, updating the picture frames with new photos when she had gotten sick. What had happened in Coach Buffy’s world?

 

Damn.

 

“You know I’ve got to talk to him. Believe me, I don’t like it any more than you do, but I’ve got to get out of here at some point so I can die in peace.”

 

_Stick around, sweetie. I’ll be gone soon enough._

 

Oh, no, Buffy thought dismally. Of all Buffys to start off with, it had to be her. She may not have been a Slayer but it had become plain: Coach Buffy had a death wish.

 

  
The urge to yell for Whistler became so strong Buffy had to scream into a pillow for a few minutes until it passed. Once her head cleared, she realized she didn’t really need him. She could answer her own question. No way would this world count as a win if this Buffy gave up and let herself die.

 

That would delay Buffy’s progression even further. Such a bummer, because she’d already gotten used to this world and its relative safety. With all her luck, she’d get transported next into a Buffy Summers who drove tractor trailers for a living.

 

No, this had to be the mission. She couldn’t abandon this Buffy after she’d already invested so much in her.

 

Curled up by the window, the closest way for her to get to the flowers outside, Buffy watched the morning light stream to noonday and Tara popped her head back in.

 

“You want to come to the dining room for lunch or take it in here?”

 

_I can make it so you never get out of this bed again, Blondie, so tread lightly._

 

Buffy mentally stuck her tongue out.

 

“You know, I should pay more attention to Mr. Pratt. I think he’s pretty lonely. Why don’t we see what he’s up to?”

 

Tara’s eyes nearly leapt out of her skull. “Whoakay.” She shook her head. “You’re a better woman than me, Ms. Summers.”

 

Buffy spied him all the way across the dining room once she made her way down the hall, on his own and looking oddly unperturbed about eating alone.

 

Buffy rolled up anyway.

 

“How’s the soup?”

 

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “It’s a bloody poem. What do you want?”

 

“I thought we’d have lunch.”

 

He nearly spit out a mouthful. “You lose a bet?”

 

“No. Is there something wrong with two old friends eating together?”

 

“You tell me, pet.” He exhaled as though his whole life went out with his breath. “You tell me.”

 

It had to be criminal how effortless it was to banter with this version of Spike. Annoying personality similarities aside, the guy had a soul, a daughter, a dead wife, and an obviously bleeding, pulsing heart. Inner Buffy had girded herself from him with such a cold, stubborn force that the Slayer had gotten obsessed with poking at these feelings with her big pointy stick. Within could be the answer to leaping out of this world and into the next and getting that much closer to her reward.

 

“While you’re here,” he continued. “I owe you a proper apology.”

 

She held up her hand. “Save it. You answering a few questions is all I need.”

 

“That so.” He eyed her suspiciously. “Go on, then.”

 

“Why did I stop going to physical therapy?” she asked in an attempt to be nonchalant. “In your opinion.”

 

Buffy had already picked up on the little clues about doing PT “again.” There had to be a reason she had stopped. Whistler had admitted that getting Coach Buffy back on it was a key to leaving and who better to weigh in than a Spike who’d known her for fifty years.

 

Mr. Pratt dropped his spoon with a clatter. “You’re joking, right? This is a setup.”

 

“Not even.” She batted her eyes - she hoped convincingly. “You’re - just a very opinionated person. I figured you’d be the best one to ask.”

 

He eyed her with a gleam of insinuation. “Didn’t realize they taught diplomacy to cheerleaders, pet.”

 

“Those must’ve been the classes you skipped,” she beamed at him.

 

Elder human Spike had none of her twenty-year-old inspired gumption, though, and he started looking tired and sad. “You’re gonna have me go on another trip round the mulberry bush, love, and I ain’t in the mood. You know why you stopped. You didn’t think it was worth it and I failed to convince you otherwise. Along with every-bloody-body else. You’ve been tucked in your beddy-bye ever since.”

 

“Why wasn’t it worth it?” she asked benignly.

 

At that, he slammed his flat hand on the table, making her and their bowls jump. Several conversations in the dining hall ceased as the residents looked at them.

 

“Because like the poet says, you can’t go home again. They won’t let you,” he seethed under his breath. “That what you want me to say? So you can blame me for something that ain’t my fault?”

 

Boom-boom-boom-boom-boom. Buffy could dance techno to her heartbeat. She knew the revelation was huge and yet she felt oddly unaffected. Inner Buffy knew this already.

 

She tossed her hair back. “They’re wrong. That’s all.”

 

“Tired of this fight, Slayer.” He sighed tiredly, and began to eat again.

 

“Oh, come on.” She slapped his arm playfully, forgetting who he was for half a second and spilling his soup off his spoon and back into his bowl. “Like we haven’t fought before.”

 

“Many times,” he emphasized. “Not like this, though. Used to be I’d piss you off, we’d have a row, then you’d kick my ass.”

 

“Kicking?” She felt scandalized. “There was no kicking.”

 

“In cards? Hello? But nothin’s the same anymore,” he grumbled. “You made that right clear. I’m just another thorn in your side, interrupting the little pity party of one you’re throwing here. You’ve gotten mean in your old age, Slayer. Never expected it of you.”

 

Buffy knew he was trying to needle her and she still couldn’t give in. “Why not me?”

 

“‘Cause you’ve always been sweet,” he replied, with a fondness that belied his age. “To a fault. Not like Angelus, who could be a cold fuck, as you well know. Can’t recall a time you’ve ever been so cross with me. All for telling you a truth you don’t wanna hear.” His jaw tightened. “Fuck that. I know I’m right.”

 

If Buffy could’ve snarled, she would’ve done it then.

 

“Spike,” she said through clenched teeth. “is there ever going to be a time you’re not going to act like a total pompous pain in the ass?"

 

He leveled her with a deadpan glare. “I dunno, pet. Tune in tomorrow on, ‘not fucking likely.’”

 

She sat up straight. “You’re just thinking all about yourself.”

 

“Yeah, probably,” he said airily, shaking a sugar packet between his fingers and stirring it into a teacup. “Though doubtful. In the end, it’s you who’ll pay the price and me who’ll have to make the bloody arrangements. So you know, I think I get a say.”

 

"In what?”

 

“In what we’ve been goin’ round and round on since you’ve been rattling about that deathtrap you call a house by your lonesome. It’s time”—he sipped his tea—“to move on.”

 

Buffy found herself panting like she’d been sparring with the Spike in her world. Had this Spike and Buffy always been this way? It didn’t seem like they would’ve been able to last fifty years. Someone would’ve gotten killed.

 

“I’m doing perfectly fine by myself, thank you very much.”

 

She would’ve said this to all the Spikes in every world ever, and every Buffy she knew would agree.

 

“Yeah, that’s why you toppled down two sets of stairs in your bunny slippers and bullied the docs into refabbing half your lower body, ‘cause you’re fine,” he muttered. “You can replace all the joints you want. Ain’t gonna change the fact you gotta get out of there before it kills you.”

 

"Just because you gave up…” Inner Buffy butted in.

 

Spike’s face alit with renewed interest. “Oh-ho, is that what I did now? You think since I didn’t wanna off myself, I’ve gone soft? Slayer, I love a brawl as much as the next bloke but once I stopped feeling my own feet, I knew where I belonged.” His jaw flexed. “Unlike you, I got people to live for. How you think Fiona would feel if I did myself like that? How - ”

 

At that, she pulled herself away from him. She couldn’t bear to hear any more about how much he had and how little she did in the way of ‘people to live for.’ Then again, weren’t their roles reversed in her own reality? Buffy had been surrounded by close helpmates and Spike existed perpetually on the outside and forever peering in. His hanging on the periphery had always skeeved her out. Now it made her sad. Who would’ve mourned if Spike had dusted in the portal? Dawn, definitely. Aside from her, though...

 

“I’ll bring you your lunch,” Tara sighed when Buffy rolled past.

 

But it wouldn’t matter. Inner Buffy needed to escape into a nap and Buffy had no choice but to follow.

 

 

Fighting for willpower - that’s how it felt to be trapped in another version of your body.

 

She’d long learned that she had to listen to the instinct of the Slayer instead of the girl; had rebelled against it plenty, too. But Coach Buffy had zero inclination to listen to her little Slayer voice inside that urged her to get up and try and keep fighting. Instead, she became the little voice in the Slayer that encouraged weakness, the same one that in another world would encourage her to eat all the cookies, shut off all the alarms, ignore her sister, and blow off training. Only this time, she couldn’t pull from the reserves of her own strong body. Coach Buffy might’ve been athletic, but she was also seventy years old, barely recuperating, and not a Slayer.

 

Thus, Buffy napped all afternoon, her body and her mind feeling completely and utterly beat.

 

“Buffy?” a sweet voice tickled her ear hours later.

 

Both Buffys hearts leapt.

 

“Dawnie?” she murmured, so happy to hear her little sister’s voice that she could’ve wept. “Oh, my God, Dawnie, I had the craziest…

 

…dream.”

 

She opened her eyes and saw a beautiful older woman sitting next to her on the bed, smiling.

 

Dawn. Dawn had grown up.

 

She had to be close to thirty here and Buffy’s eyes welled with tears. If she never came back to her world, this is what Dawn would look like as a fully-formed woman and she recognized it for the rare favor it was that she’d been allowed by the universe to witness this.

 

“Surprise,” she whispered and kissed Buffy on her cheek. “I’ve missed you so much. I know I just talked to you last week but it’s not the same. Wait, no, don’t sit up. The nurse told me to adjust your bed so you don’t have to move so much. Hold on.”

 

With the sound of a low motor whirring, Buffy’s mattress moved to vertical. Grimacing, she eased herself on her back so she could look at Dawn properly. Without even thinking, she reached up and stroked her hair back.

 

Dawn’s head bowed and she smiled. Apparently this gesture had been shared between this Dawn and Coach Buffy many times. This exchange alone reminded her how she’d done the right thing in saving her sister. Now her Dawn could be this someday.

 

“You’re here,” Buffy said shakily. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

 

“Believe me, it took a motherload of frequent flier miles and the partners nearly had a coronary but I don’t care. Fiona Dawn Pratt, Esquire is officially on personal time off.”

 

Fiona. This - this was Spike’s daughter. How had she not recognized the little girl from the scrapbook pictures? Then again, the Slayer’s Dawn hadn’t really existed as a little girl. The memories Buffy had of her had all been implanted by the monks and lately, she’d been far more focused on the teenaged Dawn she’d been desperate to save.

 

Buffy tried to gulp past the lump in her throat. This Dawnie had become a lawyer and from the feelings erupting in her chest, Coach Buffy could not have been prouder if she’d given birth to Dawn herself.

 

“Good for you.” She smiled, fighting the urge to grab Dawn and never let her go.

 

“I should’ve been here weeks ago, I’m sorry,” Dawn said, picking up Buffy’s hand. “I know Pops has been awful.”

 

Buffy squeezed her hand around Dawn’s and tried to breathe normally. “What did you hear?”

 

“Nurse Willow called me. She said…” Dawn hesitated. “She said the hospital transition team or whatever, doesn’t think your house is safe enough for you to go back to since you fell. I know how much you love that house. Anyway, she said Pops tried to convince you to sell and move in here with him. And that you got really pissed and stopped doing PT and you guys have been fighting ever since.”

 

Buffy sighed. “Sounds about right.”

 

“Buffy, he only wants what’s best for you. He worries about you. You’re all he has here, really. Believe me, I would love to give up my ridiculously expensive hole in L.A. and move back but…”

 

“No,” Buffy said immediately. “You need to live your life. We…” She gazed around the room helplessly. “We’ll figure it out.”

 

“Well, you may not have to. Nurse Willow and I thought that maybe he might do better with a little change of scenery. I’ve got a neighbor who’s a home health aide and an extra bedroom, so…”

 

“You’re gonna move him in with you?”

 

Dawn shrugged. “That’s the plan.”

 

Buffy sat back, stunned. “Oh.”

 

All the feelings, so many feelings, flooded her body and vied for equal attention. Elation and satisfaction and fear and shock and anger and crushing disappointment. The greatest of these was the sense of loss. So much loss.

 

“Of course, he’s fighting me on it tooth and nail,” Dawn continued. “That’s probably why he’s been so erratic these past few weeks. The bad thing is that the more he acts out, the more the center wants him to go, so he’s not exactly doing himself any favors if he wants to stay.”

 

“Does he?” Buffy heard herself squeak. “Want to stay?”

 

Dawn tipped her head to her with a “born yesterday” look that Buffy recognized.

 

“Oh, come on. You didn’t notice? Buffy, Pops is completely in love with you.”

 

The eeriness of hearing these words in this world by a future, older Dawn about a human, widowed Spike made Buffy want to jump out of her skin.

 

“He…” she stammered. “I….”

 

“I know, you’ve been friends forever, I get the weird,” Dawn assured her. “But even you’ve got to admit that things have been different between you two for a while. Probably going all the way back to when Mama first got sick. You refused to let him wallow. That’s when Doc started acting funny, too, remember?”

 

“Doc” must’ve been Angel, Buffy realized.

 

“Dawnie, it is totally inappropriate, bordering on obscene, to even consider it,” came older Buffy’s voice from deep inside. “I know it and he damn well should know it by now, too.”

 

Dawn exhaled heavily. “I get it. He’s been on this ‘live life to the fullest’ kick since Doc died and I think he got carried away. I’m hoping he can get a fresh start in California, maybe meet some new people. Speaking of which”—she looked at her watch—“I’ve got to meet with Nurse Willow about when we’re gonna make the big move.” She leaned over and kissed Buffy’s cheek. “I’ll check in with you later.”

 

Talk about a “pivotal point.” Buffy suddenly knew exactly what she’d have to do to be able to move on from this world. Only problem? It would fly in the face of everything she’d do in her own life.

 

In order to convince Coach Buffy to keep Spike in her life, Slayer Buffy would have to convince herself of the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rewrite of Spike dialogue from Buffy Season 5 Episode 7 “Fool for Love” and Dawn dialogue from Buffy Season 5 Episode 14 “Crush.”


	5. Chapter 5

“So, Ms. S, I know I’m not your favorite person in the world right now, but can you give me about five minutes worth of the patience you had for me in fifth grade to maybe change that?”

 

From the chair by the window, Buffy and her internal counterpart looked up to see Xander at the door with a clipboard, puppy eyes, and his most lopsided and apologetic grin.

 

“Do your worst, Alex,” Coach Buffy muttered and the Slayer could feel her older version steeling herself for the conversation to come.

 

“Thanks.” He exhaled in relief and took a quick seat next to her in the hospital guest chair.  “So… it came to my attention that I didn’t really give you the full low-down on your options the last time we talked.  As a matter of fact…” He frowned. “There’s a crazy rumor that I’m the reason why you quit PT.” He eyed her guiltily.

 

“Please.  The only one responsible for me is me,” Buffy snapped.   She stopped and tried for a kinder tone. “That said, I wouldn’t mind hearing options.”

 

“Right, ok.” He nodded. “So, first of all, you should know you don’t have to stay here.  There are other long term care joints in town. I’m pretty biased when I think Maple Court is the best but let’s face it:  you’re gonna be treated like royalty wherever you go. The other possibility is that you could go back to live at home.”

 

Older Buffy became very still.  “What?”

 

Xander held up a warning hand.  “If we assigned a nurse to you 24/7, that is.  Then we could green light you moving back for, well, as long as you’d want.  So if you’ve got the extra room and having a full time health care professional under your feet and using your microwave wouldn’t make you nuts, you might want to consider it.  We could even get someone on staff to do your PT at home so you’d never have to see our ugly mugs again.” Xander smiled nervously.

 

Buffy looked down.  This conversation felt very purposeful and very planned.

 

“Anybody in particular suggest that you bring these options to my attention?”

 

Xander brushed aside the insinuation.  “You know how folks here like to talk.”

 

“Alexander,” Older Buffy said patiently in her best teacher voice.

 

Xander couldn’t meet her eyes.  “Okay, you got me. It might have been one of our longer term residents who just so happened to lead me to regular butt-kickings on the track once upon a time.”

 

The Buffys’ shared vision blurred and a sudden dueling match erupted in their shared consciousness.

 

_See? I knew he didn’t want me,_ Coach Buffy exclaimed.

 

_Of course he wants you!  He’s giving you what he thinks you want._  

 

_What, options? What the hell is that?_

 

_If he thinks that you don’t want him, he’s definitely going to make sure you’re taken care of before he goes.  He’ll give you what he thinks is the next best thing to how well he can look after you._ Buffy blinked at her own words.  Since when had she become fluent in the love language of Spike?

 

“Hey, Coach?” Xander patted her knee.  “You okay?”

 

She came back to him and smiled.  “Yeah, Xander, I’m fine. Thank you.”

 

Xander blinked.  “You sure you’re okay?  Really?”

 

“Sure. Why?”

 

“That’s the first time you’ve called me by my nickname - like, ever.  I feel like I should look out for incoming sows with wings.”

 

_Well, I’m trying to convince another version of myself how Spike’s looking out for her, so better duck for the impending airborne pot belly division_ , Buffy thought.

 

“I think maybe I’ve got some thinking to do,” she said instead.

 

“You got it.”  He stood up and then paused. “Not for nothin’, but it won’t be the same here without you, Coach.  Either of you.” With a flash of a guilt-inducing smile, the young man left the room.

 

“Sheesh, when even Xander’s a fan, you’ve got to give pause,” Buffy muttered under her breath.  “He actually _likes_ Spike here?”

 

At that, a quick knock sounded on her door and without waiting for a response, the man himself rolled in.

 

His face looked drawn and surly.  “Fi’s taking me to dinner. You in?”

 

Oh, how both of the Buffys wanted in.  Badly. Since she’d seen Dawn, she’d gotten a homesickness that chewed at her like a hunger that could never be satisfied. As for Spike... well,  he certainly kept the conversation lively in both realities.

 

But she folded her arms and shook her head back and forth.  They couldn’t. For very different reasons, but it amounted to the same result.

 

“You’re really gonna put off spending time with your best girl to spite me?” His voice hovered toward bitter but hit her with a sweet imploring that she’d never really associated with Spike.  

 

Before she could reply, he swatted his own emotion away and looked down in disgust.  “You know what? Fine. I’ll be gone soon enough. Just like you want.”

 

“William…”

 

His head snapped up, his face filled with hope.

 

“Tell her thanks anyway.”

 

At that, he looked like he’d been sucker punched then huffed out a rueful laugh.  “Right.”

 

He banged out of her room.

 

Tears smarted Buffy’s eyes and she could feel the Coach curl up inside, both of them refusing to cry.  They had to say no to him - had to. For Buffy, it would’ve been too easy to repeat a pattern she’d secretly grown to treasure back in her old life: Buffy and Dawn with Spike. The whole reason she’d come to place a modicum of trust in the pain in the ass vampire had been because of how he’d treated Dawn.  For a girl looking to end her life, reliving those reminders of what she would leave behind would be far too painful. For Coach, though, her refusal hit Buffy as something far more complicated. She, too, had found a sweet comfort in the Buffy-Dawn-Spike dynamic, but that surely had to be very wrong. Fiona Dawn wasn’t her daughter and Spike wasn’t her husband.  To admit that she and Spike could survive without their spouses plus share a love for Dawnie (and perhaps each other) meant facing a new reality she couldn’t quite bear.

 

Back in bed later on, after both Willow and Tara had clocked out, Buffy picked at her dietetically balanced dinner of steamed chicken and limp broccoli while the gaping yawn of loneliness settled over her.  The Buffys gradually fell into a troubled sleep and faced each other in the hospital room of their shared consciousness: Coach sitting up stubbornly in bed and Buffy in her white sweater pacing around her bedside.

 

“I don’t know what you want,” Buffy told the Coach helplessly. “ _You_ don’t even know what you want.”

 

Coach Buffy gave a perfect seventy-year-old Buffy Summers eye roll.  “Neither do you _.”_

 

“No, I knew!  I was prepared.  I did exactly what I was supposed to do.  Done. Finished. Finito. I’d say it in more languages if I knew them.  You - you’re not done. You’ve got love waiting for you on the other side of this wall with a fifty year head start.  There’s foreplay and then there’s torture.”

 

“We were never like that!”

 

“Well!”  Buffy huffed.  “Improvise! People can be other things.  Spike used to be - ” She stopped.

 

“Spike? You have a Spike?”

 

“I never said he was mine!”

 

“And?”

 

“So there might be a Spike in my world,” the Slayer grumbled finally.

 

“You don’t say.”Coach Buffy looked intrigued.  “What about your Spike?”

 

The Slayer took a breath and regrouped.  “I am not seriously going to have a conversation with another version of myself at…” She stared at the clock crossly.  “One o’clock in the morning about Spike.”

 

Coach Buffy folded her arms.  “Really clue in that you don’t have anything better to do here, ‘kay?”

 

“Ugh,” Buffy groaned.  “You are so stubborn.”

 

“Yes, _we_ are. Look, this isn’t fair.  I didn’t ask for you to be here and I think I’m being pretty awesome about it.  Come on, Slayer - I’ve shown you mine. You show me yours.”

 

“Fine,” Buffy ground out.  “We’re mortal enemies. My kind kills his kind and his kind returns the favor.  He’s a vampire, I’m a vampire slayer.”

 

Coach Buffy gave her a look.  “You live in a weird world.”

 

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

 

“Well, seeing how neither of you are exactly dead, sounds like you both improvised.”

 

“He had no choice.  Secret military dudes put a microchip in his head as an experiment so he couldn’t hurt people anymore.  He had no where else to go and no one to feed on.”

 

“Sheesh, again with the weird.  No wonder you’re stalking me here.”

 

“I’m totally not…”

 

“So you and your Spike.  I get it. You used him.”

 

“What is that supposed to mean? I never used Spike.”  

 

The moment she thought those words, she knew how wrong they were.

 

Coach Buffy damn well knew, too.

 

“Right.  I’m flipping through the little Rolodex of memories you’ve got up here and I’m seeing that even after you knew how he felt about you, you exploited it.  He’d do anything for you and you let him. But not because you acknowledged how he felt. Because he had strength you could - yes - use.”

 

Buffy’s own words from the RV rang in her ears:   _He’s here because we need him. He's the only one besides me who has any chance of protecting Dawn.  He stays! Get over it._

 

“Wow, really?  What vampire would drive an RV in broad daylight?  But he did it for you. No clearer case of being willing to die for you. Admit it.  It felt good to have him there. Not just because of his strength, but because of how he felt about you.”

 

“What about you, you hypocrite?  You were basically married to two men who loved you.”

 

Coach Buffy’s expression turned to stone.  “I married one man - one - and he’s gone.”

 

“So what?  Mr. Pratt’s just convenient?”

 

“Never!  That’s why he needs to go.”

 

“God!  You’re just afraid to let yourself be happy.”

 

The Coach smiled serenely.  “Sound familiar?”

 

“No, no, no, no, no.  You don’t get it. You tell me you’d still be friends if you found out William Pratt killed people.”

 

“Uh, William Pratt did kill people.  War vet in the RAF, remember?”

 

“That’s different!  He’s a hero.”

 

“Not to the Nazis he wasn’t.”

 

“Yours has a soul!” Buffy snapped out loud and heard her voice echo in the room.  “Spike doesn’t. The only reason he does anything is to get my attention. He’d do anything to please me.”

 

“What a horrible character trait that is.”

 

“It’s not enough!”  Buffy yelled. “People - real people - need to do the right thing because it’s right.  Period. Not in some lame, misguided attempt to show love for someone or impress them - especially someone who’s never going to love them back.”

 

Coach Buffy stared at her with something like pity.  “Gotta say…you live as long as I have? You hear worse reasons for doing the right thing.”

 

“You’re exhausting,” Buffy grumbled.  

 

“So are you,” called out a muffled male voice that cut straight through her dream and woke her with a gasp.

 

“Spike?”

 

Shuddering, she opened her eyes in the darkened room with her cheeks burning and her heart pounding but alone and back in bed as the seventy year old version of herself.

 

A dream.  That’s all.  Her conversation with Coach had just been a crazy, reality-leaping inspired dream.  Right?

 

From the other side of the wall, she heard the same voice cough and she winced. The noise she had apparently made in her sleep had been all too real for her neighbor.

 

“Sorry,” she called over sheepishly.

 

The phone next to her rang and she nearly leapt out of the bed.  For a moment, all she could do was stare at it.

 

The voice behind her head in the next room cleared his throat.  “In civilized cultures, it’s customary to answer a bloody phone when it rings in the wee hours of the morning so’s not to disturb others.”

 

She snatched the receiver and held it to her ear.

 

“You’re calling me?   _On the phone?_ ”

 

“Seemed to make sense seein’s how neither of us is exactly mobile.  Thanks to you, neither of us is exactly sleeping, either.”

 

Buffy had a major problem with this arrangement, that being that the Spike in this world had a near-exact voice to the Spike in hers.  Who knew - since he’d never actually called her before - their voices could’ve matched perfectly.

 

“Sorry,” she said again.

 

“Walls are thin, love.  No worries. Thought I was the one with the rollicking nightmares.  What’s your excuse for yelling in your sleep?”

 

“Got a lot on my mind.”

 

“Oh, you mean me?”

 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she rapped out automatically.  She took a careful breath. “I’m trying to help a…student of mine.”

 

“Uh-huh.  Heard a lot of ‘his’ and ‘he.’ What is it?  She got boy problems?”

 

“Sort of.”

 

“You’re a bit out of your depths, pet.”

 

“Already realized that, thanks,” she sneered.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me you needed help?  This is in my wheelhouse. Fi’s only sorted because she cried on my shoulder after every heartbreak.”

 

Buffy could see her Dawn doing that with Spike and she wondered if they were spending time with each other while she…what?  Recovered? She began to worry. What did recovery look like there? Had the Scoobies found a long-term care home for her, too, or did she languish in a hospital?  Inwardly, she frowned about how this could be affecting Dawn. Surely her friends wouldn’t blame the girl for Buffy being incapacitated. There had to be someone who loved and would look after her little sister as much as she would.

 

Then she thought of what she had asked of Spike that last night - _“I’m counting on you to protect her”_ and his immediate reply coupled with the look on his face:   _“’Til the end of the world.”_ Regardless of where Buffy wound up, Spike would be with Dawn for as long as the girl needed him.  No doubt.

 

Older Spike cleared his throat.  “Tell me about the bastard.”

 

“It’s complicated.”

 

“When isn’t it?”

 

Buffy exhaled deeply. “He’s been a bad guy who’s done bad things and he says he’s changed because of how he feels about this girl.”

 

“Wait. Bad guy or done bad things?”

 

“Both.  I mean, what’s the difference?”

 

“There’s a big difference, love.  I know bad men who’ve saved lives and sacrificed themselves.  I know boy scouts who’ve all but decimated the people who love them and slept like babes after.  Ain’t the badness that counts in the end.”

 

“Then what does?”

 

“Love.  What’s in the heart.”

 

“The heart over, say, the soul?”

 

“I don’t know what a soul even is.  Moral compass? Please. That goes straight out the window when it’s a matter of survival.  Spend a few years in war, you’ll learn that.”

 

“What if it’s not love?” Buffy frowned.  “What if it’s obsession?”

 

“What’s he done for her then?  Actions speak.”

 

Buffy bit her lip.  “He protected the girl’s little sister when they were in trouble a bunch of times.  Their mom, too. He also tries to help at her work.”

 

“Tries?”

 

“She doesn’t exactly trust him so she beats him up a lot.”

 

Spike chuckled.  “Sounds to be a pistol like you, Slayer.”

 

“Well, she’s a cheerleader so she comes by it honestly.”

 

“Sounds like he’s trying to get her where she lives.  Make it count, you know? Makes you wonder what more he could do for her if she’d lay off.”

 

Buffy felt a thin stab of icy victory.  “So he _is_ trying to prove himself to her!”

 

“‘Course he is!  How the hell else is he gonna get a sweetheart of a girl to take him for more than a tosser?  He’s gonna slay the dragon, right? Thing is, he can never be good until good answers the door.  You can knock all you like. Unless we’re welcomed in, what’s the bloody point?”

 

“We should do good things because it’s the right thing to do,” she spelled out in a perfect principal’s tone.

 

“By that philosophy, I’d be dead.  You do what you do with what you know at the time and when you know better, you do better.”

 

Buffy sighed.  “Still doesn’t sound like love.”

 

“You remember your Doc I hope?  Besotted bastard. All revved up to be king orthopedist and rake in the big money.  Until he finds out he’s shooting blanks. He couldn’t give you his own kids so he gave you the next best thing:  a whole town’s. Never heard you question his motives.”

 

Buffy’s throat tightened and she couldn’t tell if it was she who was about to cry or Coach.

 

“What if he wants her and gets her and then dumps her?”  She heard herself ask and could not tell which of the Buffys actually wanted the answer.

 

“It’s possible from everyone always.  That’s the leap though, innit?”

 

At the word “leap,” Buffy shivered.  “Some seem safer than others.”

 

“Point.  Gotta say I wouldn’t go the family route if conquest was my end game.  You’re too invested. How long this been going on anyhow?”

 

Buffy chewed on a nail.  “The love thing? I think a few months.  They’ve known each other for a while and he’s been trying to help her over the last year.”

 

“A year?” he crowed.  “Hell, a hard cock may have no conscience but it’s also a powerful motivator.  He may have begun wanting to fuck her silly but I reckon it’s gone long past that.”

 

“That’s not the best place to begin a relationship.”

 

“Seems to me it don’t matter how you start out.  Remember me and my future bride at first, both goin’ for the same open teaching req?  I didn’t much think on anything except wanting to kill the competition. You saw how that ended up.”

 

On the scales of surreal experiences, this tipped if not broke them all:  being in the body of an older version of herself talking on the phone about Spike to a senior human version of Spike while he lay in his bed behind the shared wall of their shared nursing home.

 

She noticed how Coach Buffy’s Spike talked to her as though she hadn’t recently crushed him when she refused to eat with him and Fiona - because she knew from the look on his face when he’d left that had happened.  But it hadn’t phased him. How he felt about her had apparently won out since he’d gone out of his way to come back for more.

 

“Thank you for your help.  I’m sorry about dinner, by the way.”

 

“Don’t mention it. Though you best get used to me on the phone since it’s gonna be the only conversations you and I are gonna have from here on out.”

 

Buffy’s chest tightened.  “You’re going away with Dawnie?”

 

“Don’t see I have much choice.”

 

“William…”

 

“Buffy.” His voice dropped low.  “I’m not asking for absolutes. Just give me something - a crumb or the barest smidgen.  Tell me that maybe, someday, there's a chance…”

 

“I’ve gotta go,” she blurted and hung up the phone.

 

_What are you doing?  I wanted to say something to him then._

 

“I already did,” Buffy said and buried her face in the pillow.  “I can’t do it again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of dialogue rewrites here: Spike Season 6 Episode 10 “Wrecked,” Buffy RV lines from Season 5 Episode 20 “Spiral,” the two Buffys echo Buffy and Spike in Season 6 Episode 10 “Wrecked,” Buffy’s line about the phone from Season 6 Episode 9 “Smashed,” Buffy’s memory of Spike’s lines from Season 5 Episode 22 “The Gift,” and Mr. Pratt has several of Spike’s lines from Season 5 Episode 14 “Crush.”


	6. Chapter 6

What the Slayer had actually said to Spike back then, she remembered too well: _The only chance you had with me was when I was unconscious._

 

Instead, a different response pounded in her skull then, one the Coach was more than happy to fixate on: _It would never be you, Spike. You’re beneath me._

 

The echoes of her words burned continuously in her brain as though she were being forced to write them on some psychic chalkboard. Nothing like having the retired former coach, principal, and teacher version of yourself put you in mental detention. Easy for her to judge. Even though Mr. Pratt could probably go toe-to-toe with her reality’s Spike in the annoyance department, at least the guy was human. And had he ever said anything close to what Spike had said to her? Wondering if she’d enjoy her death as much as Nikki had enjoyed hers? Sick bastard.

 

“Yeah, Spike,” she muttered bitterly in the darkened room. “Couldn’t you tell from your cozy little vantage point down on the nice, safe concrete what a thrill it was for me to both give in to my death wish and save the world? The Slayer’s Epic Apocalypse two-for-one special: make one sacrifice, get one suicide for free.”

 

But, no. She hadn’t committed suicide. Had she? Surely saving Dawn and the world elevated it to something better than that.

 

Spike had watched her leap - after he’d been tossed some forty feet off the tower himself like so much useless garbage. His physical wounds would heal, of course, but she suddenly wondered how many times he had replayed their death wish conversation since that night and what he thought about it.

 

_You know it’s killing him. Every day you’re gone is killing him, another little piece of his flesh turning to dust. Of course he remembers what he said and he’d stake himself if he could take those words back now. You know this. You won’t let yourself but you know…_

 

Somewhere in the very wee hours of the morning she fell into troubled sleep until she saw the sun struggling to beam through the drawn window blinds. Sluggishly, she sat up in bed and could already tell she’d slept in far past the previous day. No one had woken her.

 

As though reading her mind, a nervous hand rapped on the door and a body breezed in.

 

“Oh my God, Ms. Summers! I am so, so sorry,” Tara apologized as she hurried into Buffy’s room and opened the blinds. Everything about the girl suggested “woke up super late by accident.”

 

“Hey, is everything all right?”

 

“Fine. We only have the worst landlord in the history of ever. We pay him on time every month and he still gets his power and water shut off all the time. Then the garage door got stuck when we tried to pull it up manually and then we got caught up in the three school zones and…”

 

“Tara, relax. It’s okay and I’m not angry. Why don’t you just help me get in the chair and I’ll go get some coffee in the dining room? Just let me throw on my sweatshirt over this nightgown and we can tackle PT when you’re caught up.”

 

The girl’s eyes flooded with warm gratitude. “A-are you serious? You’re sure you don’t mind?”

 

“Promise. You probably have some patients who don’t want to wait.”

 

“Do I,” she mumbled and moved the wheelchair over to Buffy’s bedside. “Mrs. Jenkins is gonna throw her purse at my head if I don’t get over there.”

 

  
Buffy rolled herself into the dining room and had barely sipped on her coffee when she felt a presence roll up behind her.

 

“Am I the bloke?” Mr. Pratt asked hoarsely.

 

Buffy turned around, surprised.

 

“Huh?”

 

“From last night - or should I say earlier this morning. Am I the bad man who’s done bad things?”

 

His eyes looked very young to her then. Young and unsure.

 

“Oh God, no,” Buffy assured him. She glanced at him and could feel Coach feeling shy. “Would you like to join me?”

 

“‘Course I would,” he muttered and pulled up next to her at the table.

 

“You do remind me a little of this guy,” she admitted. “But why would you even think you were him?”

 

“If you can’t suss it out, then you’re peering on the past with rosy retrospection. I had my demons. You know it. Weren’t for you I might still have them.”

 

Buffy looked down. “That was a long time ago.”

 

“But to even get a foot in your door, I had to be a better man. Who we choose to surround ourselves with is what we become.”

 

Buffy couldn’t help but think that if that were true, all of her time spent in cemeteries had finally caught up with her.

 

“I think it’s pretty obvious I’m not the right person to be giving advice here,” she sighed. Ha. How true that was proving to be.

 

“You’re ideal. Loving someone bad or who’s done bad doesn’t change your goodness. Believing someone can change and be more doesn’t make you less. Buffy, you know these things. You’ve lived them.”

 

Even without meeting his eyes, Buffy could feel him looking at her so intently and earnestly that it made her cheeks heat. His voice sounded like Spike’s and he used many of the same words and phrases as Spike. He definitely resembled Spike. If she stayed very still, it felt like Spike next to her when she didn’t want to kill him - like that same night when she’d told him he was beneath her. He’d obviously come back for another round (had he been carrying a rifle?) but when he saw her crying, he suspended all game play. He actually sat with on her back porch. Stranger still, he’d offered one steadying hand on her back (probably all he figured he’d be allowed to offer). But she leaned into the memory of his touch days later whenever she felt like she might break down again.

 

Coach Buffy Summers and William Pratt - the Slayer suddenly wanted to punch the both of them. Between the two, they had over one hundred years of experiences and hard-earned wisdom. And friendship. If these two couldn’t get their acts together, how could someone her age have any hope at all? Then she realized the emotion she felt wasn’t really anger at all. It was envy.

 

“Sometimes I feel like I haven’t lived at all and that I haven’t learned anything,” she blurted.

 

“Then now ain’t the time to quit.”

 

Buffy shivered.… _now ain’t the time to quit, Slayer. Where are you? Please come back._ Somewhere in Sunnydale, California, another Spike in another world spoke to her prone body. She could hear it. No - she could _feel_ it.

 

“You all right?”

 

“You ever hear the expression ‘felt like someone walked over my grave?’ That happened.”

 

“You’re not supposed to die yet, don’t you get that? Reckon that’s why this student of yours popped up in your life when she did. You put her on the right path so you’ll follow.”

 

Buffy’s eyebrows jerked upward. “You’re not wrong.”

 

He grinned. “‘Course I’m not. I’m too damn old.”

 

Buffy never thought of her Spike - er, her reality’s Spike - as being old and she suddenly wanted to ask him what he had enjoyed about being around so many years besides butchering thousands of humans. There had to be something. After all this time, he’d certainly learned things. He might even be smart. After all, she’d seen books in his crypt. Yet she’d never deemed Spike worthy of a real conversation.

 

“Could it be like this?” she whispered.

 

“Like what?”

 

“Um, the girl and her guy. That they could have real talks.”

 

“Time will tell, eh? I know I’d have gone completely off the bend if I hadn’t had you to talk to. A bloke’ll go mental when he’s too lonesome and desperate.”

 

_Like make a robot version of you. Or chain you up in his crypt. What a damn mess._

 

Buffy suddenly felt guilty and she couldn’t put her finger on why. Perhaps it was Coach Buffy’s feelings bleeding through. She hoped.

 

Because really - in no way, shape, or form should she ever feel guilty about _Spike_. How else should a Slayer treat an evil and soulless demon? She’d done him huge favors by allowing him access to her home and not staking him when she had so many chances. And about that. Why not stake him if he had no redeeming qualities? Because the chip made it more like shooting fish in a barrel?

 

“Just let me be your friend again, love. Please. I’m a dead man if you’re not in my life.”

 

Coach Buffy couldn’t respond with a word or a gesture, but quickly rolled herself away from him and escaped to the paths along the outside of the grounds. She half wondered if she’d be followed but spent the next forty minutes alone and oblivious to the beauty of the spring day.

 

  
A dead man. Of all the words he had to use, why did Mr. Pratt have to say it that way?

 

He made her think, dammit, about how many liberties she had taken with her reality’s Spike because she’d convinced herself he was an Undead Soulless Evil Killer (patent pending, for the number of times she’d strung those words together to describe him). She could say and do anything to him and it wouldn’t count. He was only a thing, really…except, by that rationale, would she have entrusted, say, a sofa to watch over her sister? Even a super powerful sofa? Sure, things didn’t - couldn’t - love but they also couldn’t make decisions or promises. As inanimate objects, they couldn’t move independently (thanks for being a walking dictionary, Teacher Buffy) so okay, fine. Spike wasn’t a thing. He could vow to protect and do it. He could choose to hide the identity of the Key and get walloped for his trouble. Which meant he could feel…stuff. Which meant he could, theoretically, love her. Be in love with her. Change his life and his actions based on those feelings - which he’d already done. Which meant he mattered. That everything she’d previously thought and done in regards to him now had to be called into question.

 

All of these conditions reminded Buffy of some complicated “if p then q” logic proof that she’d glossed over in college, a class she’d conveniently dropped out of before she could complete the result. Chugging down this train of thought made her queasy because the answers were not simple on this track - especially not for a Slayer who’d been Called to vanquish all demons regardless of allegiance or proof of rehabilitation.

 

“Hey, Ms. Summers, ready for PT?” Willow called from the sliding door at the back of the residence.

 

Buffy turned her head and waved, then rolled herself to the rest of her day and to her older body’s own rehab.

 

  
Tara and Willow got her walking on the platform parallel bars that afternoon, giving her major props while celebrating two inches of progress when it felt like Buffy was giving two miles worth of effort. They certainly did wield a kind of magic in here, these two ladies who had dedicated their lives to making the final years of a person’s life better. Of all the jobs they could’ve had with their credentials, they chose to be at Maple Court. Buffy could definitely learn something from them.

 

Here the Powers had given her one Buffy’s life to change so far and the Slayer was allowing her own feelings about her reality’s Spike to influence the Coach. She had to stop thinking like herself for two seconds and put herself fully into Coach’s comfortable yet fashionable sandals - which Tara slipped on her feet with a smile just as Dawn pushed a cart through the door with three bouquets of flowers, two dish gardens and two raucously embroidered floral throw pillows.

 

“Somebody’s getting spoiled again.” Dawnie laughed and set to the task of arranging the flowers and plants around the room. “This is going to look like the arboretum. How did PT go today?”

 

“Day two and already much better,” Tara said. “I think we’ll be able to trade this chair for crutches by the week’s end,” she added with a pat to Buffy’s knee before she straightened up. “I’ll check in later.”

 

Dawn’s eyes were dancing as she placed one pretty pillow next to Buffy on the bed and arranged the other in the spare chair by the window. “How sore are you?”

 

“On a scale of one to ten? Try infinity and beyond,” Buffy said drily. “I’m leaning heavily on my old Slayer muscles, though backflips are definitely on the back burner for a while.”

 

The younger woman bit her lip in mischief. “Feel like breaking out for a while?”

 

“Depends on what you’re offering.”

 

“Lunch, mall, and the botanical gardens?”

 

Buffy smiled. “I’m in.”

 

Dawn had obviously lived with her father’s incapacitation for a while from how easily she wielded the travel wheelchair into the ramped van the center supplied for such an occasion, and adjusted Buffy into place as though it were second nature. Buffy could barely contain herself with repressed curiosity about “Sun Valley” and aside from the surreal moment of seeing her grown-up baby sister nonchalantly spin the wheel of the van out of the parking lot, looked forward to the trip with almost unbearable excitement. Then she realized that Coach Buffy felt exactly the same way.

 

_Note to self: when we’re agreed, it’s like it’s my own body_ , Buffy thought. _What will happen when we disagree, though?_ She wondered if the Coach would ever shove her out of the way and take over. Perhaps if she got her strength back and made up her mind about the rest of her life, she would.

 

Dawn drove them all over town from Sun Valley Mall, to lunch at a chic French bistro called Fête de la Viande, and then to downtown for a quick coffee, chatting the whole time about the vagaries of Los Angeles. Her favorite tales were about the famous clients she’d met and the silliness of certain fashionista paralegals who fawned over them. Sun Valley’s cozy downtown had echoes of Sunnydale right down to the same Sun Cinema in pink stucco and blue neon instead of yellow with green; and the “Magical Box,” which was a bulk candy store. Many of the narrower streets were paved with brick and were landscaped with pine trees instead of palms. The architecture called to mind more alpine ski chalet style than mission verde, with folks dressed more for spring at Sundance and less for Surfin’ USA.

 

By the time they reached Sun Valley’s version of The Espresso Pump (called Liquid Highway here), Buffy found herself completely enamored with this older version of her sister, who was funny, smart, and grounded, with an infectious giggle and boundless happiness. She could only hope that her Dawn would turn out so well. _Even if I never get to see it._

 

“I am about four coffees behind where I’d usually be at this hour, even with the time change,” Dawn told her as she pushed Buffy’s chair down the street to the coffee shop. “And I have been craving their vanilla latte like crazy. They’re the only ones I know who use real vanilla. Do you still love the iced vanilla mocha? My treat.”

 

“The whole day’s been your treat.” Buffy laughed and then realized that of all the subjects they had covered about Dawn’s life in L.A., the new addition of her father to the mix had not been one of them. In fact, she hadn’t brought up Mr. Pratt at all - making him most conspicuous in his absence.

 

“I’ll get our drinks to go. We can take a quick walk around the block and then over to the gardens. You would not believe what the senior year horticultural class did for their end of year project. The flowers look almost as good as when you volunteered there.”

 

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” the Coach replied with a low laugh and Buffy could feel how much she enjoyed this day, enjoyed Dawn’s company, and ached for information about Spike.

 

A latte and an iced mocha later, they’d completed their lap while Buffy tried to sit back and enjoy this world. A totally different atmosphere than Sunnydale, the breeze had a hint of clear, cool, and dry mountain air with the scent of pine wafting on the wind. If she never went back to her life, she would at least have seen Colorado, so there was that.

 

Inwardly, she frowned.

 

A passportless twenty-year-old on a painfully limited budget with a pain-in-the-ass cosmic Calling equalled a chick with a complete absence of travel experience. She’d never been to Europe; in fact, the farthest she’d gotten was Aunt Arlene’s in Chicago. She had yet to explore a whole coast of her own country, not to mention any of the states on the way. She definitely hadn’t thought about all that when she had leapt into the portal. She hadn’t thought of anything except: 1. Save Dawn. 2. Be Finished. Is that was this alternative reality fest was designed for? To make her second guess her commitment?

 

“Dawnie?” Buffy heard herself ask. “I want to enjoy your company a lot more before you have to go back to work. How long can you stay?”

 

Dawn stopped pushing her. “My ticket’s open, Buffy. I’m sort of waiting on Pops to decide when he wants to go.”

 

“Oh.” Despite the flavorful drink she’d just sipped, her mouth went dry.

 

“I mean, I guess the absolute latest I could leave would be next Friday.”

 

Ten days. Could Coach Buffy make up her mind in ten days? Sounded like she’d have to, regardless. Maybe - maybe she simply had to get Coach strong enough to go back to her home like Xander suggested and to let this version of Spike go, rather than rely on him like a crutch. Maybe the Slayer had to teach her how to say goodbye - she’d gotten so good at it, after all.

 

“Come on. Let’s get to the gardens. The orchids are amazing this year.”

 

  
The Sun Valley Botanical Gardens were an extension of the town’s elaborate horticultural program and fed into the adjoining arboretum. Buffy the Slayer had to take the feelings of Coach Buffy as her own in oohing and ahhing over the “Class of 2001” sign the students had designed with flowers all in Red Devils colors, as well as admiring the extensive orchid display, palm varieties, and cherry blossom-lined koi pond. She felt her skin soak up the humid, tropical-bloom scented air and tried to bask in the beauty of this Victorian conservatory with its elaborate crystal dome and ornate glass carved windows. The last few days had been one long exercise in forced relaxation - shouldn’t she be happy she didn’t even have to walk? That a beautiful version of her sweet sister pushed her around beautiful flowers? That her bills and meals and even her showers were all taken care of? A few months ago, this life would’ve felt like a great vacation. Now it only made her uneasy. As much as she’d been ready to end her life, this didn’t work, either. She missed the living parts in which she took care of herself. Perhaps Coach felt the same.

 

Buffy and “Fiona” whiled away an easy few hours and it was a surprise to them both to see how late in the afternoon it had become. As they drove away from the campus, they passed one of the college’s playing fields and the girl slammed on the brakes of the van.

 

“Oh my God. I don’t believe it,” she blurted. “They still do it!”

 

“Who does what?” Buffy asked.

 

“Look!” Dawnie smiled, pointing at the rugby team and for a moment, Buffy couldn’t imagine what had gotten her so excited. Then she saw them. Every single one had dyed his hair an obnoxious platinum blonde - even the young men who were clearly brunette and had no business bleaching their hair anything close to that color - with short, sideburn-shaved, and yes, spiked haircuts.

 

“I’ll have to come back and take a picture when I have my camera. Oh, this is priceless. Wait until I tell Pops.” She must’ve seen Buffy’s blank look. “Please tell me you remember.”

 

“Um, sure.” Buffy tried to recover. The Coach inside had gone absolutely still and had become woefully unhelpful in the memory jogging department.

 

Dawnie rolled her eyes. “It was that year that their rugby coach died. Pops came over and coached for free that season and they ended up winning state. That was the year he got all freaked out because he’d started to go grey and Mama tried to cover it up but fried his hair instead so he had that ridiculous haircut like when he was a teenager. And the guys all dyed their hair to match and made it a thing.” She looked back to the field. “After all these years and they’re still giving snaps. I wonder if he still…”

 

“What?” Buffy whispered.

 

“He stayed on the coaching staff even after they found someone,” Dawn said quietly. “He basically trained every coach they had and wouldn’t even let them pay him, while still running their summer camp for the community center kids every year. I bet he still finds a way to help out, though good luck getting that out of him. He’ll never admit it.”

 

Buffy felt her heart pounding under her pastel purple loose-knit sweater. Coach Buffy did not know all of this. She vaguely remembered the haircuts but not the other stuff. He obviously enjoyed making an impact without recognition, opting for quiet duty over fanfare - something the Coach had not expected about him. Something the Slayer would not expect of any Spike, ever.

 

Filled with a warm inspiration, she reached over and touched Dawn’s hand. “Let me tell him about the team. I kind of want to give him a hard time.”

 

Dawnie grinned. “You got it.”

 

***

 

“So it wasn’t enough to have you practically living right on top of me,” Coach Buffy called sardonically, rolling herself toward the open door of Mr. Pratt’s room, filled with a sudden glee. “I had to watch twenty three of your clones on the - ”

 

The room was empty with the bed neatly made to each of its starched hospital corners.

 

“Ohhh,” Dawn sighed behind her. “I was afraid of that.”

 

Buffy’s breath caught in her throat and she whipped around to look at her. “At what?”

 

“Pops said that he was thinking of going back to the psych ward. Said it was easier than being over here. I-I thought he was just, you know, talking out his ass as usual but…”

 

Something caught Buffy’s eye on the bedside rolling table that had been positioned right by the window in the direct line of sunset and she slowly wheeled herself in to inspect it.

 

A very worn pack of playing cards lay stacked on the table with one card flipped over to show its suit: the King of Hearts.

 

“Putting all his cards on the table, I guess,” Dawn whispered behind her and squeezed Buffy’s tense shoulders. “Hey, let’s go have dinner. It’s been a long day.”

 

Buffy had a feeling it would be only the beginning of many. Since it appeared that William “Spike” Pratt had, for all intents and purposes, completely bailed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buffy remembers her lines from Season 5 Episode 14 “Crush” and Season 5 Episode 7 “Fool for Love.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Step, that’s it.  Step, you’re doing it!  Step…you’ve got it! You made it!  Oh, Ms. Summers, good for you.”

 

Day five with no parallel bars, no crutches, and with the assistance of only one four-pronged cane brought Coach Buffy successfully down the hall out of the PT room to her own room and back.  After throwing herself into the full regimen of therapy, she’d returned to nearly full mobility. Not like she really had anything better to do, what with Mr. Pratt completely absent from her life and Dawnie dividing her days between the two of them.  The Slayer could feel how Coach had pretty much made up her mind that come hell or high water, she’d be going back to her house and letting her best friend disappear. Any visitors who wanted to see her at Maple Court could wait until she could offer them tea at her own sweet home.

 

“This is how it’s going to be,” Coach told her reflection resolutely as she did her own hair and makeup later that same morning.  “He’ll be gone and this will be your life. Best get used to it.”

 

But at night, with her defenses down, the Slayer stalked through Coach’s memories like turning over so many rocks to peer at the wiggly things underneath.  Though she couldn’t always see the details of the memories, she could hear the voices in them crystal clear:

  
  


_“Vote for Liam!  A vote for Liam’s a vote for progress!  Hey blondie, given any thought to who you want for class president?”_

 

_“Uh, seeing’s how I just got on campus, not so much.  I’m thinking you’re going with Liam.”_

 

_“You thought right.  You just got here? Neat-o!  Why don't we start with, 'Hi, I'm Buffy.'”_

 

_“Buffy.  Really?”_

 

_“Something wrong with Buffy, buddy?”_

 

_“Not from my angle.  Anyhow, I’m Will. Pratt.”_

 

_“Nice accent, English.”_

 

_“Thanks ever so.”_

 

_“So first day, new campus. How’s tricks?”_

 

_“Wish I knew.  Gotta find Dunwirth Hall first.”_

 

_“Oh, that’s an easy one.  I’ll take you there myself.”_

 

_“And leave your campaign post?”_

 

_“Please. He’s lucky he has me.  Even if he doesn’t exactly know it yet.  Now pardon my nose trouble, but you look a little long in the tooth to be bunking in the freshman boys’ dorms.”_

 

_“That’s because I’m a bit older than your average freshman, pet.  Did a stint at the tail end of the European theater and buggered off shortly after.”_

 

_“Sea dog?”_

 

_“Fly boy.  Ace, not that I like to brag.  Oh, who am I kidding - I love to brag.”_

 

_“Get a load of you!  What’d you do, bombardier in your diapers?”_

 

_“Might’ve fudged m’ papers to get in the air.  Anyhow, all that’s long past. Locked and loaded for a fresh start, I am.”_

 

_“Well, here you have it - Dunwirth Hall.”_

 

_“Do I want to know how a nice bird like you could get to the boys’ dorm in your sleep?”_

 

_“I’ve got a vested interest in this dorm.”_

 

_“Interest in the name of Liam for President?”_

 

_“Maybe.”_

 

_“How long you been holding this torch, love?”_

 

_“Only since I was a freshman.  In high school.”_

 

_“Oh, pet.  That’s ruddy heartbreaking.”_

 

_“It’s all copacetic.  I’m on his campaign trail now and this year’s gonna be different.  Probably.”_

 

_“What’s lunkhead’s full name then?”_

 

_“Liam Angelus.  Room 313. What?  It’s good to know where your potential campus leaders live.”_

 

_“Ever cross your pretty noggin he may not be worth it?”_

 

_“Not even.  He’s the living end and I’m hook, line, and sinker for him.”_

 

_“Well, in that case…you got me this far.  Reckon I can return the favor.”_

 

_“Don’t sweat it.  I won’t be holding my breath.  I’m gonna hot foot it back to my gig, but remember:  Buffy Summers, Stevenson Hall, Room 214. Gimme a bell and we’ll hang.”_

 

_“I’d like that.”_

 

_\--_

 

_“So he ask you yet?”_

 

_“He asked.  I’m doing this thing where I told him I’d think about it.”_

 

_“Oh, you are crafty.  You’ll say yes, of course.  The Autumn Mixer being the practice run for Homecoming, right, Slayer?”_

 

_“You and that nickname.  It’s about time I find a good one for you.  You do realize the Slayers are just cheerleaders, right?  It’s not like we’re chosen ones with some sacred duty.”_

 

_“Maybe they aren’t, pet.  As for you…about you saying yes?”_

 

_“Sure I’ll say yes.  Probably. Eventually.  Except…hey, you don’t have a date, right?”_

 

_“Hell, no.  I don’t hate any bird enough to inflict her with my monstrous self.”_

 

_“Please.  You know you’re a stud.”_

 

_“Maybe on the outside. Where it matters is an altogether different story.”_

 

_“The counseling center is there for a reason. I should know, I volunteer there.”_

 

_“Is there any corner of this campus you don’t patrol, Slayer?  I dunno. Not big on having my head shrunk.”_

 

_“It’s not like that.  It’s just talking. Like we already do.”_

 

_“You gonna cure me of shell shock?”_

 

_“I’d like to try.  You’re too much of a dish to be some closet case.”_

 

_“Then have at it. In the meantime, put your man out of his misery and say yes before he chews my ear off.  At least one of us should be having a good snog.”_

 

_“What’s that mean again?”_

 

_\--_

 

_“Sorry to wake you, pet.”_

 

_“Hey, when I said anytime I meant it, you follow me?  What’s going bump tonight?”_

 

_“That 3 o’clock fire brigade that just ran through town?  Too much like air raid sirens.”_

 

_“Remember that what you’re going through is real.  I believe you. And I believe in you.”_

 

_“Buffy…I don’t know what I’d do without this, without you…”_

 

_“You’ll never have to.  Now how can I help you feel safe?”_

  
  


Coach Buffy came out of sleep late that night with her cheeks wet and the remnants of an old song on her lips:  “I've got tears in my ears from lyin' on my back in my bed while I cry over you…” But she couldn’t laugh. She’d forgotten so much about her friend.  No, scratch that. She’d _buried_ so much about her friend and herself.  They’d made beautiful lives for themselves, this Buffy and Spike, embedding a lost seed of possibility and planting over it with friendship, cultivating it with other loves that only enriched their foundation.  Now that which had been long entombed sought to rise from its slumber.

 

“You’ve loved him all along,” the Slayer whispered.  “You fell in love with your Angel but you loved him, too.”

 

She sat up in bed, the last ancient conversation still echoing in her ears and a wild pull tugging at her feet.  Carefully, she peeled the covers back on her hospital bed and eased the Coach’s newly-rehabilitated legs into her sandals.

 

The halls were quiet as she walked her cane down the polished tile and Pergo floors.  Coach knew exactly where to go and the hour meant that no one stopped her. She crossed over one doorway and saw a familiar young man at a desk, jotting notes in a patient’s folder.

 

“Alex,” she whispered.  “Didn’t expect to see you.  You’re working late.”

 

Xander looked up, his expression almost as though he’d been expecting her.  “Ms. S. You know you shouldn’t be here.”

 

“I’ve got a forty-year-old lapsed counseling certificate.  How far will that get me?”

 

He sighed and pushed his chair back.  “Come on.”

 

Xander led her down a dim hall to doors nearly identical to the ones on her own floor only with plastic boxes on the outside to hold the occupants’ patient files.  With a finger to his lips, he peeked a door open and she saw Mr. Pratt curled on one side in bed with his back rising and falling in sleep. The nurse version of her friend eased the door closed again.

 

“How is he?” she asked.

 

Xander barely shrugged.  “Good days and bad. He’s letting us dope him up at night so he’s at least getting more rest.  Don’t think he’s crazy about the drug hangover the next day.”

 

“No, he wouldn’t be.  It’s happening again, isn’t it?”

 

“Yeah, but a PTSD relapse for a guy his age after everything he’s been through is not uncommon.  Is there - do you know of anyone who helped counsel him before?”

 

Buffy felt her throat constrict.  “Yup.”

 

“Think they’d be willing to jump on board again?”

 

Then he looked at her face.

 

“Oh, wow.  Ms. S., I didn’t know it was you.”

 

“It would never be allowed to happen in this day and age but back then, counseling a friend didn’t seem like such a bad idea.”

 

“It might not be now, for you two. Everybody knows you’ve been BFFs since the dawn of time.”

 

She smiled wanly.  “Thanks, Alex. Remind me to show you our favorite snapshots from the La Brea Tar Pits.”

 

“You know what I mean.  You’re Mr. and Ms. Total Bestie, always have been.  If anyone could get through to him, I know it would be you.”

 

“Except-” Buffy hesitated.  “I don’t know if I can…be what he needs me to be for him now.”

 

He nodded.  “I get it. It sucks, but I get it.”

 

“Any chance you’d turn a blind eye to me sitting with him a while?”

 

Xander’s eyes darted around the hall.  “Sure, go ahead. I never saw you.”

 

“Thank you.”

  
  


She hobbled in the door and sat down next to him in the guest chair to face him.  Coach rested her cane against the side of the bed and immediately leaned over to take his hand.

 

The Slayer gazed awkwardly at the sedated man. “Don’t suppose you like the Ramones?” She tried to smile.  But Coach was having none of that.

 

“My sweet friend,” Buffy felt her whisper.  “I don’t want to lose you but I don’t know if I can keep you, either.  I just…why does this have to be so hard?”

 

 _Get over it!  You’re both human and alive!_ the Slayer reminded her but somehow that didn’t make a dent in Coach’s stubborn psyche.  Non-demonic and souled relationships apparently guaranteed nothing - as if she didn’t know from her own brief and bad experiences.

 

Through the Coach’s filter, the Slayer could feel a warmth and affection for this incarnation of Spike - it was hard not to for how innocent and youthful he appeared as he dozed.  Buffy could relate to the blows this guy had taken his seventy plus years, especially in the last two. But what would double that look like? How much had her Spike lost and, God, did she even care?

 

At least Angel had been good for one little nugget of information:  that few vampires - whether fledgeling or master - had purposely turned their backs on life.  None of them knew exactly what awaited them when they rose as demons. And wow, wasn’t that a depressing thought that the Slayer had buried almost as deeply as Coach had buried her earliest memories of her Spike:  how William the Bloody had not chosen to be sired. He’d been an innocent.

 

And maybe, somewhere buried in him, there was a seed left of that man, too.

 

Damn.

 

“You make the most of what you have,” Coach said aloud as though talking to both her Spike and the Slayer.  “Maybe it’s not the orchids you wanted but you can grow some pretty damn fine gardenias.”

 

“Nice floral imagery, Coach.”

 

“Oh, Slayer.” Her older voice sighed to herself.  “He and I couldn’t have each other so we grew something else - who’s to say it wasn’t something even better?  To lose every dream you’d ever had about one life, what other choice would you have but to embrace whatever remained?”

 

“And when you know better, you do better.”

 

“Yes, that’s one of his favorite lines,” Coach mused out loud.  “I never knew it would ever be about me.”

 

“Can you let him?  Do better by you now that he knows better?”

 

“Can you?”

 

The Buffys sat with Mr. Pratt until near sunup and an invisible alarm went off in Coach’s body that indicated she needed to shag ass, as those wild and crazy ‘50s kids would say.  That’s when Buffy knew: this Spike might’ve been on the psych floor before but Coach had also visited him here before, too. She knew exactly when the safest times to come and go were.

 

“Him sedated like this is like him having a chip in his head, Coach. It’s an illusion of safety.  You’re never going to have something real unless you’re both free.”

 

“You remember that as well, Slayer,” Coach advised her, and both Buffys winced as they straightened up from their cramped vigil and limped out of his room back to their own.

 

***

 

“I don’t want Fiona to take me,” Coach explained, finishing the germ of an idea she’d proposed to Nurse Willow after lunch.  “I don’t need her input. I need a professional and I’d be happy to pay you for your time.”

 

“I’d love to, Ms. S.  I get off at three. Will that work?”

 

“Absolutely.”

 

“A-and no payment.  No way.”

 

“How about a dinner that doesn’t involve a disposable napkin dispenser?”

 

“Now you’re talkin’.” Willow grinned.

 

“Bring Tara, too, if she’s free.  Just in case I decide to take a tumble.”

  
  


Both nurses happily piled Buffy into one of the center’s SUVs with her new cane instead of her chair.  They picked a time when Fiona happened to be enjoying an afternoon with her dad and Coach felt a pang of regret.  The poor girl had been bouncing between her room and Mr. Pratt’s as though she were a child of divorce. The Slayer knew that old rhythm well but it seemed unfair that this Dawnie should.

 

The trip took just under ten minutes. They wound around a secluded, wooded area made up of homes that looked more like luxury log cabins.

 

“I have so many happy memories here,” Tara said, turning back to Buffy with a smile.  “Everyone wanted to have their end of year class party at your house.”

 

“I think everyone did!” Willow laughed.  “God, Tara, remember before the Jenkins family built next door and the old barn was there with the rope swing and the pond?”

 

“Really glad I didn’t know how dangerous that was back then.  It would’ve ruined the fun.”

 

From modest to elaborate, some all natural wood and some shingled, the family homes of varying ages dotted the landscape of steep hills interspersed with massive pine trees.  They’d carved a neighborhood here complete with sidewalks and mailboxes - domesticity in the wild.

 

“Here we are,” Willow announced, pulling around a cul-de-sac and the Slayer’s mouth dropped open.

 

 _Oh, hell no._  

 

With aged cedar planking mixed with worn grey staggered shake shingles, the house looked like a Colorado mountain cabin had a 3,000 square foot baby with a Kennedy Kennebunkport enclave, complete with two expansive porches, a tiered front garden with three levels, massive windows to let in light no matter what time of day and…stairs.  

 

Oodles and oodles of different kinds of stairs.

 

First, there was the little set of six brick steps - sans railing - that led to the sidewalk and the mailbox.  Then, there was a set of eight elaborately mortared river stones that looked more like art than an actual functioning stairway that led to the first level of the front garden with decorative bushes.  Next, a steep climb of an eight rung wooden flight of steps (thankfully, with railings) brought the visitor to the smaller second level garden where a small bench for those already winded from the first part of their journey could likely recover.  The next staircase of another half dozen stone steps curved around to the third and final level of Coach’s garden filled with wildflowers - where a good ten wooden steps up to the front door would finally deposit the wearied traveler to her destination.

 

And the driveway!  The drive jutted right next to the house at an almost impossible angle and yes, another set of small stone stairs and a wrought iron railing ran along down its opposite side.  Buffy had skied on lesser hills.

 

Willow pulled the car around to a generously sized two-car garage in back and Buffy’s mouth dropped further when Tara helped her out of the car to take in the amazing mountain view waiting for her with - if it could be possible - more stairs.  An ancient iron spiral staircase from some room on the third floor led to the mossy stone walkway, with stairs to the ground level deck and more stairs to the second level deck. And more gardens - all architecturally designed for that green-thumb enthusiast who thought nothing of having row after row of maniacal stairs leading guests to sitting area, to fire pit, and to the…

 

“…pool down there?  Don’t worry, Xander’s gonna have his buddy fix the pump so it won’t make that weird noise anymore.  Probably just some leaves are stuck.”

 

“Wait, Xander’s house sitting for me?”

 

“Not so much house sitting,” Tara supplied.  “He just…um…stops by every couple days or so to check the mail and stuff.”

 

“Did I know this?” Buffy asked.  “I feel like maybe I didn’t. Well, I’m gonna have to pay him for his trouble, sheesh.”

 

“No,” Willow piped up.  “It’s, uh, it’s been taken care of.”

 

As the two younger women and their older patient glanced at each other awkwardly, Buffy knew exactly who had “taken care of” this little arrangement.  The Coach knew, too.

 

But it wasn’t until Buffy saw the floating staircase in the back den with narrow, polished logs for steps that seemed to hover in precarious mid-air that the full futility of Coach’s situation hit her.  For the first time, instead of feeling twenty and ignoring her seventy-year-old limitations, the Coach saw her home through the eyes of twenty-year-old Buffy, dumbstruck and stuck in a seventy-year-old body - and realized a stark inevitability.

 

That’s when the Coach began to cry.

 

Tara scurried to her side.  “Oh, Ms. Summers! Are you in pain?  Do you - should we sit down?”

 

Coach shook her head and continued to shake with quiet sobs.  Foolish. She’d been so incredibly foolish - and about so much.

 

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” Coach sniffled.  “I’m not twenty-years-old anymore, for God’s sake. I know better than this.  About a lot of things.” She looked at the nurses. “I can’t live here anymore.  Can I?”

 

“We could make you really, really comfortable…” Tara began optimistically.  

 

But Willow put a hand on her shoulder and turned to Buffy. “It wouldn’t be living, Coach, no way close to how you were used to living here before.  It’d be like a prison. And I think it would end up making you sadder in the long run.”

 

When Mr. Pratt had warned her about the place killing her, she realized he wasn’t just talking about a physical death from injury but an emotional and mental one from clinging to something already long gone.

 

“Let me just…I just want to take a quick look around,” Buffy told them, leaning heavily on her cane.

 

“Take all the time you need,” Tara replied.

 

As Buffy stepped through room after expansive room, she saw how so many pictures had never made it into the scrapbooks - maybe because the house itself had become one big scrapbook of its own.  The walls were covered with so many team pictures, so many newspaper and yearbook stills of her coaching and teaching, and so many photos of her and her husband with their two dearest friends and daughter.  No matter the decade, whether stuck in the polyester double-knit suits of the seventies, the Family Ties ensembles of the eighties, or the more sedate Banana Republic outfits of the nineties, one thing never wavered:  Coach Buffy and William Pratt always, always stood next to each other in every photo. It didn’t seem planned or posed, either - it seemed that’s just how they gravitated together.

 

“I’m ready,” she told the girls after adjusting the thermostat and resetting the alarm. She re-locked the back door and let the nurses usher her back in the car.  The golden and purple hues of sunset were arching over the house, bathing it with light and her eyes teared again from the beauty of it. This had been a house of love.  There were no regrets here.

 

After winding back down the driveway, Willow paused for a moment in front of the house.  If she squinted, Buffy could almost see shades of Revello Drive in the shape of the dormer windows and porch pillars. Something so familiar and dear tightened in her chest at that.  Her house hadn’t been a home since her mother had died and part of her had never wanted to return to it again. But maybe it could be something else. Something belonging to her and Dawn this time - if she went back.  She raised her hand to the car window as though in farewell, and the nurses drove away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buffy’s introduction from Season 1 Episode 1 “Welcome to the Hellmouth,” Spike’s line from Season 2 Episode 3 “School Hard.”
> 
> A "sea dog" is an old-time word for a veteran sailor; a "fly boy" would be a pilot; an "ace" is a pilot who has shot down five or more enemy aircraft.
> 
> Real world factoid: college counseling centers began as a direct response to the needs of WW2 vets trying to return to life after the war.
> 
> The very old song Coach wakes up singing, circa 1950: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wdXkSjtFm6I
> 
> And lots of 1950s era slang courtesy of my obsession with this era :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of Buffy #1 and I hope you enjoy our first happy ending!

The next morning, Fiona knocked on Buffy’s door after the Coach completed a particularly vigorous round of PT.  Buffy had chosen to rest back in the wheelchair and the cane glared at her reprovingly from the corner. Somehow the feat of graduating to the cane didn’t seem as important any more.

 

Another step needed to take precedence now.

 

“Hi!  Did you already eat?”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“Okay,” Dawnie answered nervously, tugging on the cuff of her jacket and chewing on her lip.  “Dinner later then?”

 

“I’d like that.”

 

“Buffy?” The girl’s voice cracked.  “You-you know what’s gonna happen Friday, right?”

 

“You have to go back to L.A.,” Buffy whispered.

 

“Pops is finally ready, I think.  Except he still wants to say goodbye to you.  Maybe that should happen before we finish packing so he’s not wicked upset when we go.”

 

“Is he?” Coach’s voice cracked.  “Upset?”

 

The lovely girl’s eyes pooled sympathy as she slipped into the guest chair next to Buffy.

 

“I haven’t seen him this bad since…”  She shook her head. “No. Not with Mama and not with Doc, either, because he had you both times for them and now he doesn’t even have that.”

 

Her words hardened as though she wanted so badly to blame Coach for her father’s unhappiness and still knew that she couldn’t.

 

The Slayer and the Coach looked longingly at Fiona Dawn, took a deep breath, and leapt into a conversation that had been building for what felt like years.

 

“Dawnie.  What do you remember about us all?  Were we there for you enough? Were you loved?  Did we… ”

 

“Buffy,” the young woman whispered and smiled in surprise.  “It was like having four parents, but in the best way. I never had to worry if someone was going to take care of me.  If Mama had to tutor or Pops had to coach, I knew you’d be picking me up from school or Doc would swing over in his scrubs.” She smiled at the memory.  “You all loved each other, as far as I knew. Like friends except…”

 

Buffy’s heart began to pound.  “What?”

 

“Doc would be card partners with Mama and you’d be with Pops and I’d watch you all on the back deck laughing and…I don’t know. I was just a kid.  A-and I know how much you loved Doc and he loved you. Same with Pops and Mama. I never felt weird about it or like I wasn’t safe.” She shook her head shyly.  “I’m probably being silly, I know.”

 

“No,” Buffy told her, taking her hand.  “I need to hear this.”

 

“Pops loving you doesn’t phase me because it seems like that’s what’s supposed to happen.  Like you each had the people you loved first and now you can have each other. Believe me, on another level?” She laughed shortly.  “I’m so jealous I could chew nails. I’d give anything to have a guy for just the first part of my life, never mind the last.”

 

Buffy squeezed her hand.  “It’ll come.”

 

“Yeah, and in the meantime, the four of you have held the bar up so high no relationship can come close,” Dawn replied teasingly.  “Pops says it’s a good thing, that it will weed out the wankers.”

 

A hearty, throaty laugh bubbled up from Buffy’s throat and she felt a minuscule release of tension in her chest.  Coach had been worried about Dawnie’s reaction to all of this and in turn, Buffy thought about her sister in her world.  Would she always feel loved? _Note to self: make sure Dawnie feels loved_ , she thought automatically and then stopped herself.  She’d been ready to finish these lives and go to heaven.  Now, though, she just wanted to hug her sister again.

 

“He says he’s the only one left,” Coach told her with a quiver in her voice.  “God, that always ticks me off.”

 

Dawn watched her.  “Because?”

 

“He’s so damn pompous,” Coach replied through gritted teeth.  “Like he’s God’s gift. But at the same time, I know it’s more than that - and that’s what makes me mad. B-because I’m really kind of…nervous.”  Buffy wiped her eyes behind her glasses and shook her head. “Sorry. You’re the last person I should be telling this to, my sweet girl.”

 

“Buffy, I’m a big girl now.  I can take it.”

 

Both Buffys watched her warily, as though weighing the possible psychological damage they could be doing to Dawnie - and to themselves - by their admission.

 

“If he and I can’t make it work, that’s it.  I’ve lost the chance for love again but most importantly, I’ve lost my very best friend.  The only one who really gets me anymore and I know it doesn’t make sense but I’d almost rather keep him at arm’s length because then…then he’s always a possibility, you know?  I can have him around and not have to decide.”

 

Buffy gulped inwardly.  The Coach had been speaking through her and yet, the Slayer felt the words as though they were her own.

 

Dawnie’s eyes focused on her with heartbreaking compassion.  “Oh, Buffy. Pops would never leave you.”

 

“Except he has,” she answered tightly.  “He _will_.”

 

“Only because he thinks that’s what you want.  You wanna know the big reason he went back to psych?  For the antidepressants. He says he’s going to need all he can get if he moves to L.A. with me.”  She grinned wryly. “Good thing I didn’t take it personally.”

 

“Dawnie…”

 

“Buffy.  You have to choose him.  That’s all he needs. So what if the romantic stuff doesn’t work out.  Like that would matter to him? He’ll stay your friend no matter what. But you have to choose him.”  She glanced at her watch. “Preferably before his plane ticket becomes non-refundable.”

 

The Coach eased out a careful breath and the Slayer followed.

 

“I’m really scared.”

 

“Remember what you told me before I did my first high flying basket toss?  ‘It’s okay if you’re scared because it means you’re about to do something really brave.’  Choosing life is brave. Choosing love is, too.”

 

_The hardest thing in this world is to live in it._

 

Right then, Buffy knew that Coach had decided that she wanted to live.

 

“He’s outside by the fountain right now, acting like he’s being all sneaky about getting in his one cigarette for the day,” Dawn continued. “Which if he moves in with me, he’s definitely gonna have to quit for good.”

 

A small smile tugged at Buffy’s lips.  “I’m sure he’ll love that.”

 

“He loves _you_.  I do, too.”  Dawn’s eyes caught hers.  “It’s okay, Buffy, that he loves you.  And it’s okay if you love him back. Really.”

 

This was what a real choice looked like.  There had been no choosing on the tower. But it appeared that second chances were abounding, even here in Sun Valley, CO, between platonic best friends with two dead spouses and a half century of shared lives.

 

“I’ll see you in a bit,” Buffy whispered and the girl hugged her tightly.

 

***

 

“Those things will kill you,” she scolded Spike’s back.

 

At the sound of her voice, she saw his body stiffen and his posture straighten.  Slowly, he turned to face her. God, his handsome face looked awful, like he’d aged a decade in the past week and the Coach’s heart broke a little - then toughened immediately for the interaction to come.  

 

“Not soon enough,” he replied flatly.  “Here to say goodbye, then? Well, ta ra, Slayer.  I’ll send you a postcard from the City of Angels.”

 

“Spike.”  Buffy swallowed past the monumental lump in her throat.  “I-I miss you.”

 

His jaw quivered.  “That so.”

 

“I can’t remember the last time we went so long without talking.  Life is pretty boring without you in it.” She tried to smile.

 

“Thrilled I’ve been so entertaining,” he drawled stiffly.  “Reckon you’ll have to rely on the telly from here on out. M’ plane leaves Friday.”

 

“Spike…” Her heart was thundering so fast that she could barely catch her breath.  This was how she should’ve felt on the tower, absolutely terrified for the leap she was about to take - and she hadn’t.  She’d been perfectly calm about ending her life. She didn’t know what that meant, all she knew is that she had to help the Coach take this next leap now - toward a new life and away from an old one.

 

“Slayer, just go,” he said tiredly, waving his hand at her.  “I can’t do this anymore. The heartbreaks have caught up to me, right?  I’m waving the white flag.” He crushed the butt of the cigarette under the lip of the stone fountain’s bowl and tossed it away.

 

Slowly, she wheeled herself to his side.

 

“Please stay.”

 

Mr. Pratt eyed her warily.  “How’s that now?”

 

“I said,” she cleared her throat.  “Stay with me. Please.”

 

He brought a shaking hand up to his face and rubbed the day’s worth of stubble on his cheek, mute and still as though her words had blindsided him.

 

“I went to the house yesterday,” she continued.   “You were right. It’s a deathtrap - for a lot of reasons.  For one, a person could fall forever into the past there and never get up.”

 

He looked over at her wonderingly.  “She could.”

 

“I went to see you, too.  You were fast asleep, or passed out or whatever, but seeing you like that, I thought about your nightmares.  I figured out what had made me so upset when I heard you screaming. Part of it was knowing how much you were suffering.  But the bigger part was that it reminded me about how we started.” Coach swallowed hard. “I think I made myself forget.”

 

Mr. Pratt tilted his head at her.  “Forget or pretend not to remember?  Lived in that world m’self, Slayer, and when the nightmares came back, it hit me full on that I had something to tell you about fifty years too late.”  

 

“About the Autumn Mixer?” she asked shyly.

 

“Exactly that.  Because you were asking me then, in that moment, to go with you.  To be with you.”

 

“Yeah,” she breathed in relief.  “I didn’t want to admit it, not even then, but I was.”

 

“Biggest regret of my life was that I couldn’t step up and be the man you needed. Then again, if it weren’t for you in my corner, I may’ve not grown old at all.  ‘Sides, I know how you loved him.”

 

“And I know how you loved her.  And Dawnie. ”

 

“So reckon we did all right in the end.”  

 

“But that was our shot,” Coach choked.  “And we missed it.”

 

“Oh, Buffy, we didn’t miss anything.”  He smiled at her tenderly. “It’s here - right here in front of us now.  Like some long dormant beautiful blossom come back to life. Go on, love,” he encouraged.  “Ask me again.”

 

Licking her dry, trembling lips, Coach repeated the words that her twenty-year-old self had dreamed about only hours before:

 

“‘Hey, you don’t have a date, right?’”

 

“No.” His voice broke.  “Think you can help me out with that?”

 

“I think I’d like to try,” she whispered.  “I just don’t know how.”

 

He stayed quiet for a few agonizing seconds and looked at his immobile feet tied into his immaculate, shiny black leather loafers.

 

“I want you,” he mumbled.  “However you want.”

 

Buffy’s lips parted in surprise.  “That’s it?”

 

“It?” he crowed at her, his head jerking up.  “Like that ain’t enough?”

 

“That can’t be enough for you.”

 

This Spike huffed out a pained chuckle.  “You’d be amazed at how far ‘enough’ can get you.  Do I want more? Hell, yes. If you dove in m’ bed tomorrow with a box of Saltines, damned if I’d ever kick you out.  So ‘course I want more. But…” He gazed at her soulfully. “I need _you_ , love. You were my best friend; then you both were. When my sweet missus got sick, you lot wouldn’t leave me be.  I wouldn’t’ve made it without you two. Then we’re all barely on two legs again and…” He waved his hand. “You know the rest.  You lived it. Never thought the old sod would go old timer’s.”

 

So that’s what had happened.  This Buffy’s Angel had gotten Alzheimer’s right after this Spike’s wife died.

 

“Never thought it’d be over so quick,” he added hoarsely. “Nor did you, I suspect.”

 

Buffy bit her lip.  “Not even a little."

 

“Don’t you get it?” he asked her shakily.  “You don’t gotta be strong for me. God knows you’re stubborn enough to live to be a hundred or more.  You really wanna give up with thirty years left on the clock?”

 

Word by word, he broke down her defenses and part of her wanted to give in but the Slayer part of her - oh, the Slayer still wanted to fight against all the feelings that attacked her and made her so painfully vulnerable.

 

Buffy raised her chin in defiance.  “I don’t think I can play nursemaid to another broken man again,” she heard herself warn him and cringed at the edge in her own voice.

 

Mr. Pratt stared stunned at her.  “No one’s bloody askin’ you to! Why do you think I’m sellin’ the house I lived in for forty years to come bunk at this mouth of hell?  I don’t want you wipin’ my ass, I want my best Pitch partner back. You and I could clean up ‘round here. The blighters in this crypt can’t play cards for shit.”

 

“But how do we do this?”

 

“I don’t know.  Can’t we figure it out together, please?  All I know is I can’t live without you.”

 

_I can’t live without you, Buffy._ She shivered.  Her Spike was talking to her again.  While she conversed with this world’s Spike and Buffy, her Spike desperately sought to make contact.  If only she could tell him that she heard every word…

 

“Movin’ in with Fi would never work.  Did the whole L.A. scene when I got out of the service and it didn’t agree with me.”  He gazed at her earnestly. “You’d be doin’ this for me so I ain’t so morbidly alone. All I need from you is you.”

 

The same Coach Buffy that couldn’t let a seedling get bitten by frost or allow a student to be left struggling to read also couldn’t let her Spike face mortality by himself.

 

Impulsively, she reached her left hand across his body and threaded his fingers through hers.  He looked at her with boundless hope.

 

“I never wanted you to be alone.  No matter how angry you make me.”

 

“You know why I rile you, right?  Gotta keep your heart pumpin’, love.” His eyes twinkled.   “Only two things that’ll do it, fighting and fucking, and Christ knows we’ve only done the one.  My legs might be for shit but I’m sharp as a bloody tack. I won’t go gently into that good night, you got me?”

 

“No,” Buffy sniffled.

 

“I’m saying don’t worry about me, pet.  As long as you want me, I won’t leave you.  Go ahead and die in my arms. I can take it.  Did it once for a lady.” His voice wavered while the tears flashed in his eyes.  “Be my honor to do it again. Thirty years or so down the line, that is.”

 

The Slayer could barely reconcile the blue, blue eyes of the man who’d been at the foot of her stairs in Sunnydale transported into this worn face, attached to a warm, weathered hand that trembled a pulse.  She would never see her Spike grow old or feel his heartbeat or the warmth of his body. That’s what real girls, not Slayers, got to have. But her Spike had crossed the caverns of dimensions to say he missed her.  That’s what she got.

 

_This one’s not so bad, Coach.  Maybe a little redeemable._

 

Silence.

 

Then that tiny voice like her conscience:   _maybe._

 

_You might as well give him a shot.  What else have you got to do, die? That’d be pretty dumb._

 

_I’m fifty years older than you, Slayer.  You never said why you’re in such a hurry._

 

Together, the Buffys sat and stewed, their hearts on fire with a horrible, wrenching ache to desperately hold on to a thing that would inevitably get dragged away.

 

_I don’t know what you’ve lost, but this is my house, my garden, my life.  All of my old life would be gone. How can I ever let it go?_

 

Buffy smiled to herself.   _I did this already.  Sometimes you just have to leap._

 

“We’re not sharing an apartment,” Coach told him primly, her last line of defense.

 

“Me move in with you?” He gaped at her.  “Are you mad? You’re a horrible housekeeper, woman.  It’s a wonder the mice don’t put on little suits and dance around the hearth.”

 

As both Buffys laughed, the tension eased, her last barrier broke down, and Buffy could feel Coach being drawn closer to him.

 

“How much can I take with me?” she asked dreamily, her fingers swirling around the beds of his fingernails.

 

“As much as you want. As much as ‘Two Men and a Truck’ can haul for you.”

 

“And my flowers?”  Her tears flowed freely now.

 

“You’ll plant anew.”

 

His other arm, warm and comforting, went around her shoulders.

 

“But that’s going to take forever!” she cried.

 

“No, it won’t.  Just a season or two.  In the meantime, you’ve already got a garden to travel with you.”  He tilted his head to her. “I wanted you to have a garden that would never die.”

 

Then she knew:  he’d done it. He’d contacted the students, he’d asked for the cards.  She could almost hear the request: _Send Coach your flowers so she has something pretty to wake up to.  Write your notes about how much she means to you, so she can take your blooms with her wherever she goes._

 

“You’re being way too sweet to me,” she sobbed.  “Why?”

 

“Because the moment I met you, I loved you.  Enough to let another man have you. Enough to leave you if you willed it.  And if all I’m meant to do is hold your hand, then I’m the lucky bloke who gets to do it until the day we die.”

 

She reached up with her other hand and cupped his cheek - a face so familiar and dear that the Slayer suddenly couldn’t imagine what _her_ life would be like without it.

 

“I don’t think I’m cross with you anymore.”

 

“Give it time, love.  You will be. Then we’ll work ourselves off that precipice next.”

 

_It will never be a tower and it will never be into a portal.  You’ve got this,_ Buffy told her.

 

“Oops, I’m sorry,” Tara stammered as she walked out and quickly began to backtrack from the courtyard.

 

“No, Tara, stay,” Buffy told her, staring at Spike.  “I need to talk to you anyway. Are you and Will still needing out of your apartment?  Because there may be a house available.”

 

“Me and…” Tara gulped.  “Y-you know about us? I mean, it’s obvious?”

 

“Only to people familiar with love,” William said with a grin.

 

“Ms. Summers, you mean your house?”

 

“The one and the same.”

 

“I-I don’t know how I - how we - could ever afford…”

 

“Let’s just say you’ll have a great landlady and you’ll pay as you go over time.”  Buffy looked over her shoulder at the girl. “How’s that sound? Honestly, you’d be doing me the favor.  It’s more important I have someone there who loves my house as much as I do.”

 

“I do!” she chirped.  “S-so does Willow, I know she does.  Ms. Summers, how can we ever thank you?”

 

“Just be happy,” Buffy said and turned back to Spike.  She’d forgotten, in this last little while, that he wasn’t her Spike at all and that Coach Buffy had effectively taken the wheel.  Then laughing, she advised, “Life’s meant to be enjoyed, not endured.”

 

“Bloody hell, Slayer,” Spike grunted at her affectionately.  “Did you get that from a fucking fortune cookie?”

 

“Shut up, Spike,” she told him and braced herself as Coach leaned them in for a kiss.  

 

The Slayer knew what to expect even if they didn’t. Their first voluntary kiss at seventy, Buffy had her well beat even not counting Willow’s spell from a year ago:  she’d resolutely kissed Spike in his crypt after he’d nearly gotten pummeled to death by Glory. She’d meant it, too, no matter how the feelings of hesitation and awkwardness and being weirded out warred within her.  She’d meant it in appreciation and recognition. Maybe even as a reward, too, though who the reward had actually been for had kind of blurred when her lips met his and she hadn’t inwardly recoiled. No, far from it. It had even been kind of nice.  And oh, the way he had looked at her. Parched men in the Mojave didn’t look at water with quite the longing Spike had for her. The way Mr. Pratt looked at Coach always.

 

Never had she seen Spike more clearly than through his bruises - the evidence of what he’d do for her.  This leap here had taught her that at least: that Spike really believed he loved her. She could thank all the back and forth conversations with Coach and Mr. Pratt for that.  Could that be enough for…anything?

 

Instead of relishing the sweetness of this kiss with Spike the Silver Fox, Buffy felt a jolt like a roller coaster car being relieved of its brakes and found herself instead standing and sweating in a heavy brown suede fringed jacket with applause echoing around her.  To go from sitting to standing was shocking enough but this…

 

Spotlights. Heat.  A stage. She could feel her legs weaken and her cowboy-booted feet stumble.

 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man in a sequined cowboy jacket and feathered ten gallon hat speak into a microphone.

 

“Last and certainly not least tonight, ladies and gentlemen, is a little lady who needs no introduction since she’s one of Nashville’s sweethearts.  You know her and you love her and she loves playin’ here for you. Give a great Grand Ole Opry welcome to our own Buffy Anne Summers!”

 

_A guitar, I’m holding a guitar.  Why would I ever hold a guitar unless it was a weapon?_

 

Louder applause. An audience. Panic.  She could feel her body starting to shake.

 

_What?  I can’t do this.  I can’t play a kazoo much less carry a tune._

 

Then with all of the force that the Slayer would use in restraining a particularly frisky vampire, she felt this Buffy slam her backwards under her powerful consciousness.  

 

_Hey! Can you even do that?_

 

“Oh, I’m doin’ it!” she laughed into the microphone, her voice suddenly dripping with southern honey.  “Hey y’all! Thanks for comin’ out! Who wants to slay with me tonight, huh? All right, then. Let’s get to it!  5-6-7-8…”

 

_Ohh, boy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buffy’s line from Season 5 Episode 22 “The Gift,” Spike’s line from Season 5 Episode 14 “Crush.”
> 
> And “ohh, boy” courtesy of Quantum Leap :)


	9. Chapter 9

_You say you've got your demons_

_But you better reign 'em in_

_if I'm on a lark_

_with your big bad heart_

_best believe I'm gonna win_

 

_And you're all decked out in evil_

_it fits you like a glove_

_you best strip away that evil_

_if you're lookin' for my love_

 

_You're just askin' me for trouble_

_if you're goin' for the kill_

_you're gonna find a hunter_

_lookin' for a sweet ole thrill_

 

_Have one real good day_

_Slay you tonight…_

 

To quote Giles, dear Lord.

 

Technically, Buffy shouldn’t have been so critical.  This was, after all, her own voice... if her voice had tons of vocal training and could actually nail various notes instead of warble around them.  No doubt that when it came to singing and performing, Buffy Anne was the Slayer. But really. People paid money for this? Voluntarily?

 

_I'm the girl to do it_

_I'm your chosen one_

_it's time to dance_

_it's your last chance_

_I'm gonna have some fun_

 

_What you call your instinct_

_ain't ever gonna fly_

_'cause what I call my instinct_

_is gonna make you die_

 

_Babe, this ain't no rave_

_this could mean your grave_

_Slay you tonight..._

 

No accounting for taste, the crowd erupted into riotous clapping and hoots of delight at the completion of the song.  With much waving and numerous blown kisses, Buffy Anne stalked off the stage and shoved the guitar at some pimply teenage roadie.  He, in turn, handed her a big gulp size take-out soda with a red straw and the words _SONIC_ printed on the side.  Realizing how very thirsty she’d become, Buffy greedily slurped the slushy liquid as Buffy Anne wove her way backstage on a clear mission while giving smiles and high fives to nearly everyone she passed. By the time she’d reached the room with her name on the door, the soda was nearly gone.

 

It wasn’t until Buffy Anne got safely into the room, closed and locked the door, and sat in front of the lighted mirror that Buffy realized she had not, in fact, consumed nearly thirty ounces of frozen, lime-flavored sugary water.   Lime-flavored sugary diesel fuel would be more accurate.

 

Her cheeks heating and her careful control wavering, the Slayer took a quick inventory of the face before her.

 

Buffy Anne resided somewhere in her mid-twenties and the Slayer felt both relieved at seeing her face young again and uneasy with how unlike her real self she felt in this body.  Buffy Anne had abandoned blonde several stops back; she had bushy brunette hair that had been teased out to its Austin City limits. Clearly she subscribed to the Southern adage that the higher the hair, the closer to God.  Some makeup hack had applied glittery bluish eyeshadow and red lipstick with a heavy hand along with false eyelashes and more blusher and foundation than should be allowed by law. Stage makeup, she knew, but it looked - and felt - more like a mask.  

 

Her eye caught the sparkle of a tiny diamond cross around her neck and then met the eyes of the singer in the mirror.  The girl broke out in an ecstatic smile.

 

“Hey there, Slayer.” Buffy Anne grinned.  “It’s about time. I’ve been waitin’ for you, girl.”

 

Buffy gulped.  The singer could _see_ her.  Moreover, she seemed to _know_ her.

 

_You have?_

 

“I’ve been dreamin’ about you for years,” she purred.  “You are one tough bitch.”

 

_Uh…thanks?_

 

“No, it’s all good, believe me.  You’re everything I’m not. You’re a warrior and I’m just…” Her lips trembled and she wrapped them around the red straw, sucking deeply until the slurping hit the icy bottom.  “It doesn’t matter. You’re here now. Damned if I’m ever gonna let you go.”

 

Buffy could feel her vision cloud.  Any hope of getting the upper hand on this version of herself seemed to be an equally dim prospect.

 

_What exactly did we drink?_

 

Buffy Anne laughed.  “Don’t tell me you never heard of moonshine, Slayer.  Well, get used to it. See, you’ve got a strength I need.  I can feel you.” She pounded her palm on her sueded chest. “You are coursin’ all through me.  When I’m you, I can do anything. So while I’m you, you can sit back there and be me. Let’s drink to that.”

 

She leaned back in her makeup chair and pulled open the bottom right drawer of the table.  Secreted under piles of scarves and inside a battered suede handbag, Buffy Anne pulled out a large gunmetal flask.

 

She toasted it to the mirror and winked.  “Welcome to Nash Vegas, Slayer.”

 

***

 

Not to exaggerate or anything since she’d read many a story that claimed it, but for real here - how she got redressed into a tight-fitting denim sundress and deposited into a limousine went by in an actual blur.

 

Buffy the Vampire Slayer had absolutely no control.

 

Buffy Anne Summers Nashville Darling, however, proved herself to have as much in common with a vampire as a Slayer, since she’d effectively sucked Buffy dry of what little power she’d leapt in with and run with it.

 

“Broadway, baby!” she demanded of her driver the moment she slid her denim-skirted bottom into the backseat. With an entourage of two - herself and a silent, beefy Opry security guy who looked like a sumo wrestler stuffed into a suit - the car slid into the night.

 

_Ahem._ The Slayer nudged her new consciousness to get her attention.  But Buffy Anne was humming something to herself, intent on ignoring any interruptions.

 

_Yo Daisy Duke!  I’m trying to have a conversation here.  I’m supposed to help you._

 

“You will, Slayer, you will,” the singer said out loud.  The bodyguard turned from his seat ahead of her and frowned, then put up the glass barricade between them.  The Slayer felt like she was behind a similar partition of glass.

 

_But not this way.  This isn’t what Slayers are for.  Look, how do you even know me?_

 

“I prayed for you,” she said simply and then began to sing:  “Calling all angels, calling all angels/walk me through this one/don't leave me alone…”

 

_Oh God.  I’m not an angel. That’s not what a Slayer is._

 

“It is the way you try to do it.”  The singer laughed as together they watched the sleek vehicle entering a bustling highway with the red and white car lights of traffic glittering like colored stones against the velvet of night.  “Anyhow, there’s all kinds of angels. You came to me in a dream when I was just a bitty thing and I’ve been obsessed with you ever since. Even gave you your own theme song which made me famous.  Trouble is, I’m not as good as you. Hell, I don’t even think you’re as good as you. But you don't really talk about that, do ya? _”_ She sang the last line in a way that called to mind a familiar song that the Slayer couldn’t quite place.  Meanwhile, she tried to collect herself.  

 

_So you think I’m your inspiration, is that it?_

 

“‘You’re the meaning in my life/you’re the inspiration…’ _”_ Buffy Anne belted out.

 

_Look, you didn’t make me up.  I’m real. I come from a different dimension, that’s all.  I don’t know how or why you dreamed me but..._

 

“When I’m with you I can be better - ‘you better you better you bet’,” Buffy Anne sang, switching gears again to yet another song.  

 

_Ohh boy,_ the Slayer muttered to herself.  She felt a need not only to shout for Whistler, but to throttle the damn guy.  At some point, there had to be a break in Buffy Anne’s little performance that would allow the Slayer a chance to get the upper hand.  No one could play Name That Tune with their drunk selves for an entire evening. Right?

 

“Slayer, honey, you need let go and let God.  Or in this case, let go and let me… ‘Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends/We're so glad you could attend/Come inside, come inside!’”

 

_Looks like I have no choice,_ the Slayer groaned.

 

“Comin’ up on our right, Slayer, you’ll see the Union Station Hotel Nashville, followed by the brand-spank-me-new Frist Center for the Visual Arts,” she chirped.

 

_Really don’t need the fifty cent tour, thanks._

 

“Followed by the Customs House and Nashville First Baptist.  As we cross 7th Street, now you can see where Nashville’s goin’ to hell in a handbasket, courtesy of the Gaylord Entertainment Center.  Black & Blue Tour comin’ up this month, June 23rd. Wanna go see the Backstreet Boys, Slayer? That more your style? ‘I never wanna hear you say/I want it that way.’  Damn, if any song’s achin’ for a country cover, that’d be the ticket, you know it?”

 

June.  The Slayer let it sink in.  Somehow she had leapt into June.

 

“No?  You got awful quiet back there, Slayer.  Tell you what…”

 

The glass partition slid down suddenly.

 

“Ma’am, with the Fan Fair gearin’ up, Lower Broad’s gonna be wild,” the driver called back to her in a thick Southern drawl.  “Lemme pull down on the side of Legends and I’ll see if I might can get valet near Ryman or the Renaissance.”

 

Buffy looked ahead through the windshield and her eyes were assaulted with people, cars, and lights.

 

Viva Nash Vegas indeed.

 

The Slayer quickly understood why the country music capital of the world had earned such a moniker. While it couldn’t match the glitz and glamour of the real Sunset Strip, the throngs of this city were enveloped in a wave of music, illuminated with flashy neon signs, and moving through the ever-present pulse of a vibrant nightlife she could feel even in the shelter of the car.   _Vampires would have a field day here_ , was all she could think.

 

She also realized that, despite her being called one of “Nashville’s own,” this Slayer had planted herself on ground zero of prime tourist territory.  This is not where locals frequented to get away from the celebrity seekers and curious tourists. This was where semi-famous singers went to seek out attention, as if the applause from the Opry hadn’t been enough.  Something in this girl had been hollowed out - the hole much larger than a stake-size puncture - leaving her with an ache and emptiness that could barely be kept away by moonshine. Facing the mess of Buffy Anne’s muddled emotions brewing inside felt like untangling her way out of some complicated and wiry maze.  The added haze of alcohol and the confusion of being thrust into a brand new body and world certainly didn’t help.

 

And that, apparently, was exactly what Buffy Anne Summers wanted - someone else to hold her emotional bag.  Buffy the Sunnydale Slayer would certainly fit that bill.

 

“Showtime, Slayer,” Buffy Anne murmured and curled her fingers around the car door handle, ready to spring into the night.

 

The limo deposited her at the corner of Broadway and N. 5th Street next to a brick building with the words, “Nashville’s Legendary Legends Corner” lined with white lights on the club’s side wall.  Buffy Anne jumped out of the car without hesitation and with her bodyguard close behind. She passed the guitar strumming and hoots pouring out of Legends’ open front door in favor of the two story, garishly lilac painted building called “Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge” with a line of hopeful partygoers spilling out of the doorway.  When Buffy Anne popped up at the door, the bouncer’s eyes widened and he quickly ushered her inside while the crowd crowed with both outrage at some girl skipping the line and excitement from those who recognized “The Slayer.”

 

Then the manure hit the rotary fan:  Buffy Anne was surrounded by flashbulbs and a sea of people clamoring for a photo, an autograph, a hug, a kiss - some tangible morsel of her they could take away like a souvenir.  While the security guy hung at her elbow and managed to weave her through the tightly-packed room, he seemed to be valuable more for his intimidating size than any real bodyguarding skills.

 

“Buffy?  You really came, I can’t believe it!”

 

A curly-haired blonde in a dress like a pink slip paired with glossy black cowboy boots threw her sweaty, perfumed arms around Buffy’s neck and the bodyguard stepped closer as though gauging the threat.  

 

The Slayer couldn’t believe her eyes - this was Jennifer.  Jennifer Walkens. From Hemery. What in the world? Luckily, Buffy Anne did not register Buffy’s shock and hugged the girl back without reservation.

 

“‘Course I came!  Like I’d give up a chance to hang with the gang?  Hey Bruno, down boy, down. This is my very best girl Jen from my Helmont days.  So, where’s our blushing bride?”

 

“Downstairs probably on her third line dance and sixth shot.  Come on!” She tugged Buffy by the fringe of her suede jacket and pulled her through the throng that still wanted to get a glimpse or a piece of the young singer.  The Slayer would’ve felt safer surrounded by real vampires instead of these faceless groupies.

 

Jen led her across the dirty plywood floor to the back stairs, where Buffy was hit with a smell reminiscent of the mother of all frat parties - and not the sedate ones of UC Sunnydale but more like what she’d imagine from _Animal House_.  Tobacco, urine, stale beer, and a hint of vomit all warred in her nostrils as Jen pulled her down the narrow paneled stairwell and directed her to a table surrounded by gaggle of young women outfitted in various homages to country fashion. Some had on cowboy hats, some had on bright slip dresses with torn denim vests and jackets over them, and all wore cowboy boots.  Buffy glanced at her own boots and mentally rolled her eyes: they’d been custom-made in a patchwork of gorgeous shades of brown leather and suede, with the cursive words “Slayer” embroidered in glossy red leather, like a lipstick (or blood) streak, across the sides of her calves.

 

The Slayer took in the crowd of party girls and realized she knew all of them - had known them anyway - not from “Helmont” (whatever that was) but Hemery.  Her life in L.A. had always seemed like a different lifetime and now, it appeared she was about to visit what a version of her life would have been like if she’d never left that crowd.

 

A deeply-tanned, wavy-haired brunette in a filmy white tank top, painted-on black leather pants and boots, wearing an elaborate white cowboy hat festooned with a huge sequined flower and bridal veil, turned as Buffy approached and screeched with delight.

 

“OH MY GOD!” She flung herself into Buffy’s arms.  “How in the hell are you here, girl?”

 

“Just got done with my gig.  You think I’d miss this?”

 

“Oh my sweet lord, the Slayer is here!  Now the party can really start.”

 

“You’re the party, Nicole.  Can’t believe Tyler finally got you to say ‘yes.’”

 

“Well, what can I say?  He sweetened the deal. Check out this rock candy.”  Nicole held out her left hand for inspection and Buffy goggled at her gold-set engagement ring. The rectangular diamond was as big as a Chiclet and caught every light in the dimly lit room.

 

“Wow,” Buffy Anne gulped and the Slayer could feel it:  the shock that one of her best old friends got to make this leap.  The envy. The thudding awareness that this represented one more thing that girls her age were getting - and one more thing that she herself didn’t have.  The Slayer could so relate. “Congratulations again, sweetie!” Buffy Anne smiled gamely and hugged the girl once more. Nicole. God, _Nicole._

 

Nicole Bobbitson. Buffy had seen the girl die in her world but here she was, alive and kicking and engaged to a version of one of Buffy’s ex-boyfriends.

 

“Buffy Anne Summers, why I never!” said a voice behind her and Buffy was pulled into yet another hug from a girl in coy, brown-haired pigtails under a black cowboy hat and wearing a red and white checked gingham mini dress.

 

“Kimmy-girl, I have missed you somethin’ fierce!” Buffy Anne exclaimed, hugging her back.  “How’s Steven?”

 

“Well, I think I might have worn him down.  We’re apartment hunting this summer!” she squealed.

 

“That’s great!” Buffy Anne told her hollowly.  Kimmy looked just like Kimberly Hannah from Hemery, last seen at the infamous school dance that resulted in Buffy the Slayer blowing up the school gym.  Good times.

 

So it continued until Buffy Anne had caught up with the entire entourage:  Alyssa, a 1970s Cher lookalike Buffy dimly remembered sitting behind her in math class, was finishing her residency at Vanderbilt and was dating a doctor.  Missy, a tiny redhead Buffy cheered with, had opened her own bistro in the suburb of Franklin with her chef-boyfriend, Brad. And elegant, Asian beauty Jessica had just accepted a position as exhibitions curator at the new Frist Visual Arts Center Buffy had passed on her way to downtown.  Oh - and Jessica dated an up-and-coming artist named Trent.

 

All successful.  All in what appeared through Buffy Anne’s moonshine-dimmed eyes to be extremely loving, serious, and successful relationships.

 

“Bottoms up, baby,” Nicole told Buffy and stuck a shot glass of something clear and smelling of apples under her nose that Buffy Anne could not swallow fast enough.  In the circle of these girls, she felt somewhat protected from the celebrity hounds. Most of the audience downstairs seemed seasoned enough with seeing country music stars mingling with the common folk that they merely eyed her from a distance.  So Buffy Anne felt completely at ease downing shot after fruity-firewater-flavored shot, followed by a margarita and a cough-syrupy concoction called an Alabama Slammer before being handed a glass of champagne to toast with.

 

Nicole jumped up on one of the wooden chairs and shushed her girlfriends as best she could against the din of the downstairs bar crowd.  

 

“Before we get our honky tonk on, girls, I just wanna tell you that the best part of bein’ single was hangin’ with y’all.  Don’t think for a second that marriage is gonna change that. Now we need the Slayer for our favorite toast. Get your ass up here, Buffy Anne!”  

 

Buffy felt herself being pushed toward Nicole and then stumbled up into the chair after her.

 

“Come on, y’all, say it with me now!” Buffy Anne called and held up her glass with a shaking hand and a fake grin painted on her face.

 

“Here’s to the men that we love/Here’s to the men who love us/But the men that we love are never the men who love us/So FUCK THE MEN AND HERE’S TO US!”  The girls yelled the last line at a volume that would make any cheerleading coach proud and gained the attention of the rest of the bar as the bachelorette party whooped and threw back their glasses of champagne.

 

As for Buffy, she could feel the room tilt at an alarming angle and the next thing she knew, she’d been grabbed off the chair by a large bearded bear of a man in a Confederate flag t-shirt barely stretched over his jiggling and hairy belly, who positively reeked of pilsner and pipe smoke.

 

“Slayer!” he growled drunkenly, spinning her around so fast her head swam.  “Hey y’all, I caught myself the real, live Slayer!”

 

Where was a stake when you needed one anyway?

 

“Put - me - down!” Buffy Anne yelled, pounding in vain on his chest and kicking at his legs until the bruiser bodyguard Bruno finally came out of his stupor long enough to yank the girl out of the fan’s sweaty clutches.

 

“You’re no fun, Slayer!” The fan yelled behind her while his buddies pulled him back and tried to appease him.  “You’re a fuckin’ tease!”

 

“Go blow yourself!” Nicole yelled back, flipping the man off.

 

A worried older man in a black western shirt and pants appeared at Buffy’s side as Bruno eased her back to her feet.

 

“Miss Summers?  Hey, Miss Summers.  You know we all love you here but you’re about to cause an all-out riot.  We got a line all the way down the block itchin’ for just a shot at seein’ the Slayer.”

 

“What are you sayin’, Bobby?” Buffy Anne asked.

 

His weathered face looked concerned.  “We’ll take care of the tab on this here party of your friend’s if we can get y’all out quiet through the back.”

 

She glanced over her shoulder.  “I don’t know if everybody wants to leave just yet…”

 

“Are you kiddin’?  Let’s blow this popsicle stand,” Jen announced with a laugh.  “The night is young and so are we!”

 

Buffy Anne caught Nicole’s elbow.  “Honey, I am so sorry to ruin your night.”

 

“Ruin?” Nicole repeated, her eyes wide.  “Girl, we’ve probably put away near a grand’s worth of booze by now.  They wanna pay for it, let ‘em. Like they’re the only honky tonk on the strip.  Let’s fly, my beautiful bridal birdies!” Nicole called and the party followed Bobby the bar manager to the back exit.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a native New Yorker who has lived in the South for 17 years and I have nothing but mad love for this strange land. Believe it or not, I'm not a fan of country music (at ALL) but I sort of absorb it since I’m surrounded by it. One day in exercise class, I heard a song that I swore was called “Slay You Tonight” and right then, I started making up my own silly, imaginary lyrics to it because my brain is a weird place. This was probably a year ago, long before I ever started this story. The name of the song is, in fact, “Playing With Fire” by Jennifer Nettles (I had to ask the person teaching the class because I had no clue). So if you’re looking for the tune to Buffy Anne’s Slayer song, that’s it.
> 
> Buffy Anne’s litany: Calling All Angels by Jane Siberry and KD Lang; Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen; You’re the Inspiration by Chicago; You Better You Bet by The Who; Karn Evil 9: 1st Impression, Part 2 by Emerson, Lake, and Palmer; I Want It That Way by the Backstreet Boys.
> 
> I’ve done my very best to try to recreate the relative grittiness of Nashville 2001, which is very different from the gentrified Nashville of today. The renovation to the city, especially the downtown, began as a result of the damage from a devastating 1998 tornado. Lots of landmarks have disappeared while others have changed names (e.g. The Gaylord Entertainment Center is now the Bridgestone Arena.) Any mistakes I’ve made are the result of my very poor memory from my first visit in 2003 and incomplete Googling.
> 
> Buffy Anne’s Hemery friends are from the Buffy the Vampire Slayer movie and were not on the TV show.
> 
> Buffy Anne’s toast is one I might’ve heard once or twice in college.
> 
> As my native Nashvillians will remind me, you can always spot tourists because they wear cowboy boots since locals, as a rule, do not. I figured a celebrating bachelorette party might make an exception in this case.


	10. Chapter 10

The Slayer watched with a kind of sick fascination as Buffy Anne propelled them through the night on a steady stream of alcohol.  To her credit, the girl didn’t so much as slur one rounded vowel of her Southern accent. She walked, talked, and even sneezed with the utmost charm and poise.  To anyone watching, including the Slayer herself, she had all that and the bag of organic mesquite BBQ flavored chips.

 

Unfortunately, the lure of the Slayer proved too much for the hungry tourists and scenes similar to the one at Tootsie’s repeated at Robert’s Western World, Jim and Layla’s Bluegrass Inn, the Second Fiddle, and The Stage as the group tried to edge their way down Broadway in search of an uninterrupted continuation of their private party. While Buffy Anne seemed oblivious to it, the Slayer could tell that the rest of the bachelorettes were less than pleased at having to depart each club for less crowded pastures.

 

“Hey, girl, I think we’re gonna call it a night,” Nicole told her after another failed attempt to hold court, this time at Planet Hollywood.  

 

“Nic, I am so, so, sorry…” Buffy Anne began.

 

“Honey, you don’t got nothin’ to apologize for,” the girl replied with an overly bright smile.  “You’re famous! Who wouldn’t want what you got?”

 

“Yeah,” Buffy Anne replied, frowning.  “I guess.”

 

“Listen, we’re headed over to Five Points tomorrow night, the Margot Cafe?  To die for French, I swear Missy’s gonna steal her whole menu. Then maybe hit the Tin Roof on Demonbreun and slum it down in the Gulch.  You in?”

 

“I-I wish I could.  I have to perform. Hey!”  Buffy brightened. “I could get y’all tickets!  T-to Fan Fair or what about the Ryman Landmark Ceremony concert?”

 

“Sure, honey,” Nicole answered, glancing over her shoulder at the remaining girls.  “I’ll call you, ‘kay? You still going through your professor’s phone number?”

 

“Yeah, but…”

 

“Okay, then!  Thank you so much for comin’ out with us, girl!  We love you!” Nicole backed up into the other girls, all of them blowing Buffy kisses and waving her goodbye.

 

She felt a presence by her elbow and looked up to see strong, silent Bruno standing by her side like some bodyguard robot.

 

“Come on,” she muttered.  

 

She stumbled along the sidewalk and looked up at the large man.  “They’re gonna go back out without me, aren’t they?” she asked him sadly.  “You know what? Never mind. I need a drink.” Bruno grunted and plucked a phone out of his side pocket, speaking quietly into it.  Within moments, the limo glided down the street next to them to pick them up.

 

“Springwater,” Buffy told the driver.  “Now.”

 

If the Slayer had been hoping Buffy Anne had a hankering to actually drink some water, she was sorely mistaken.  Springwater ended up being the battered and scratched crown jewel of any dive bar Buffy had yet to see. To their credit, though, not one of its patrons batted an eye at the Slayer and her black-suited goon, leaving the girl to freely pour six shots of cinnamon-flavored acid down her throat followed by a Pabst Blue Ribbon chaser.  When she felt her legs give out from under her, she grabbed on to the rock stiff bicep of Bruno, who hauled her out of the bar and back into the limo without a word.

 

By the time the car rolled her to the back entrance of the Opryland Hotel Nashville, Buffy could feel her own legs coming back.  The Nashville Slayer had started to fade.

 

Her limousine door opened and a hand reached out for her.  Without thinking, Buffy grabbed for it like a lifeline and found herself face to face with her own Watcher.

 

“Giles,” she whispered, stunned.

 

“Hello, Buffy,” he smiled tensely.  “Lovely performance tonight, my dear.  Did you have a good evening with your girlfriends?”

 

Giles.  This was her Giles.  He sounded, looked, and even dressed like the Giles she’d come to know and love in Sunnydale.  But something felt very wrong. She couldn’t believe that had she rolled up to her Watcher at 3am, according to the limo’s digital clock, with no explanation and more than a little plastered, he would in be in any way happy.  But this guy plucked her out of the back of the car and ushered her inside as though not a thing were amiss.

 

“Giles,” she muttered.  “I-I don’t feel so good…”

 

“Yes, well, it’s very late and you of course need your rest.  Drink plenty of water before you go to sleep, hmm? Now I’d like us to meet well before your sound check tomorrow.  You’re slated to perform only one song and we need to ensure it’s your best…”

 

He wound her through back hallways, then to an elevator and finally to a sumptuous hotel suite.  

 

“Here we are,” he said placatingly and eased her onto the foot of the bed.  Her head flopped back and she felt the room tilting madly while he eased off her cowboy boots.

 

“Plenty of water, my dear, and there’s aspirin in the bathroom.  Do make sure you sleep on your side.”

 

Struggling as though ten vampires had her pinned between them like some princess’ pea, Buffy fought her way panting to somewhat vertical and hitched herself up to her elbows.

 

“Giles!” she snapped and stared at him meaningfully.  Couldn’t he see her struggling?

 

“Oh, yes, I almost forgot, my apologies.”  He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a clear glass bottle of peppermint schnapps, then set it gingerly on her nightstand.

 

“Your nightcap, as it were,” he said nervously.  “Well. Goodnight, Buffy.”

 

At the click of the latch in the door, Buffy sank onto her back while her stomach roiled.

 

“Huh?”

 

For a moment, all she could do was helplessly feel the bed spin.  She hadn’t even had the chance to enjoy being out of a wheelchair, for heaven’s sake, because this - this was proving to be much, much worse.

 

Buffy did not drink booze and there were very good reasons for this - numero uno, the sickening feeling right now of having gotten hitched by a runaway train and trying desperately to keep up with it so it wouldn’t run her clean over.  Somehow in the fog of inebriation, she realized that Buffy Anne had summoned her. Well, inasmuch as you can summon your vampire slayer twin from another dimension. Buffy Anne wanted her here, big time. She’d tried to be the Slayer on her own for far too long.  She sipped too much too fast in her bid to knock back her fears and her nervousness and to shut up her incessant backstage critic - her very own Watcher and Council who also happened to be her belittling self. This voice never let up about how she went flat on that last octave, how she rushed the chorus, how her guitar was out of tune, how she didn’t smile enough, and how everyone in the crowd only applauded to be polite.  Meanwhile, what did being a semi-talented, semi-famous singer matter when she couldn’t even manage a normal night out with college friends? The same friends who looked up to her for her fame already had her beat when it came to being loved.

 

Buffy the Slayer, in theory, would absorb all of these blows like she’d been designed by nature to do, while absorbing all of the alcohol as well.

 

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Buffy muttered and stumbled to the bathroom to retch out one of the greatest technicolor yawns of her young life.  After that, she dragged her borrowed body into the shower and scrubbed hair product and layers of makeup off for what seemed like an hour. She ran the water cool and drank as much of it as what ran over her body, so like hers in all the same ways but with a darker tan and broader curves - less Slayer, more wiggle.  By the time she emerged and turbaned a towel around her head, she realized that the inebriation had dissipated into the far reaches of her consciousness. Buffy Anne curled up inside vaguely wondering how she’d managed to get so completely plowed and why the Slayer she needed so badly couldn’t take all this on for her and play nice.

 

“Because that’s not what a Slayer does,” Buffy said stubbornly.  “Now go to sleep. I have to try to figure you out before you come to and railroad me again.”

 

Pictures - _all the Buffys hold on to ‘em_.  Now all she had to do was find them.

 

Wrapped in a fluffy white hotel robe, Buffy went through the several hard-top suitcases carrying Buffy Anne’s “normal” outfits - soft jeans, broken in leather boots and sneakers, relaxed cotton tee shirts - and found nothing resembling a helpful scrapbook or photo album.  Then behind a chair, she spied a vintage-looking retro leather carrying case with wheels and a handle, very similar to the storage box her mom used to house her favorite record albums. For a moment, Buffy closed her eyes and imagined the battered old brown box nestled behind Joyce’s sensible work shoes in her closet.  What in the world had her mom listened to? Buffy realized that aside from Juice Newton and the Bay City Rollers, she didn’t exactly know.

 

Returning to this reality, Buffy opened the box and instead of seeing vinyl records, saw magazines and newspapers filed according to year, going all the way back to 1984.

 

“Jackpot,” she whispered and sat crosslegged in front of the box to begin her research.

 

If she’d learned one thing from Coach, it was that arming herself with as much personal information about the Buffy body the Slayer was inhabiting made all the difference in getting out of there.  Not that spending time in Coach’s life had been horrible, but if she had figured out earlier the memory both Mr. Pratt and Coach had repressed, Buffy felt like she would’ve been able to sort them out and leap sooner.  Then again, she frowned, if she had done that she might’ve never seen her sweet Dawn all grown up. So perhaps it had worked out exactly as it was meant to.

 

The 1980s files began with creased programs from county fairs and bulletins from a North Carolina church called Son Valley Community Christian Fellowship.  Buffy twisted her mouth wryly at that but her mouth dropped open in shock when she saw the heading: “Welcome to Son Valley Christian Fellowship Church! Enjoy your stay!  Pastor Hank Summers.”

 

“What the - ”

 

Buffy Anne had been a pastor’s kid.  

 

The county fair programs listed Buffy Anne as participating in talent shows and singing lead in the “junior bluegrass ensemble.”  A few fragile newspaper clippings that had survived this time period showed a young Buffy in a cowboy hat accepting the ribbons and awards when she had actually won the talent shows.  

 

After a few years of scattered class photos from what appeared to be a tiny K-12 school in rural North Carolina, Buffy came upon a beaten manila envelope containing an odd assortment of bank statements, tax documents, and pay stubs from various restaurants and what were probably bars (from the pint glass ring stains on some of them): The Orange Peel, The Biltmore Hotel Group, Hannah Flanagan’s, Poe’s Tavern on Sullivan’s Island, The Ole Mecklenburg Brewery, Tin Roof Columbia, North Side Tavern Atlanta…At one point, Buffy could tell these had been kept in meticulous order as the bank balance slowly grew and the meager interest compounded.  She’d worked what appeared to be non-stop for over two years and thanks to her collection of tax returns, the Slayer found out that this Buffy had her exact same birthday with the addition of five years. Buffy Anne was twenty five in this world.

 

Then a sedately folded booklet fell into her hands and she opened it, the cover reading: “Rest in Peace Pastor Hank Summers - February 27, 1996 - Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted – Matthew 5:4.”

 

Buffy’s heart caught in her throat.  This Buffy’s father had died on the same date as the Slayer’s mother, five years previously.  She took this body’s emotional pulse, waiting to feel some sign that Buffy Anne mourned her father as much as the Slayer had mourned Joyce, but no flickers surfaced.  How different was this collection from the Coach’s, who had made elaborate scrapbooked testaments to the various stages of her life and all the people she loved in them.  Buffy Anne appeared to be all business, with not so much as a snapshot of her and any friend or family member - not to mention how her mom was totally MIA. Either the photos didn’t exist or they hadn’t made the cut to travel with her.

 

Then began the Helmont University years.  Buffy Anne saved everything, from her congratulatory letter of her acceptance and scholarship to the School of Music, to every year of her dorm assignments, and the eventual leather bound portfolio containing her degree in Songwriting with a Music Business minor.  The college, Buffy realized, was right here in Nashville. No wonder the Opry host last night had called Buffy Anne one of Nashville’s own. She had just graduated the previous year.

 

A gallon-size Ziploc bag held a handful of Digital 8 tapes and Buffy ached with curiosity about what could be on them and how she could go about playing them.  She hadn’t come across a camcorder yet and she knew no other device that would play this format.

 

The more recent files were fan magazines, first limited to the country music business ( _Country Daily, Magazine of Country Music, Music Row, Nashville Music Guide_ ) and culminating in one very dogeared _People_ from March, with Buffy Anne on the cover and the title, “Another Day Another Slay - on the road with the hottest new ticket in country music!”  

 

“Wow,” Buffy murmured, tracing the photo of her dark-haired smiling self.  “You’re a break out star. How did that happen?”

 

A glance at the _People_ article told her more:  Born in Kill Devil Hills, NC, Buffy’s mother died in childbirth and Pastor Summers moved his infant daughter to Western North Carolina, skipping the little family around several towns until finally establishing his Son Valley Church on the outskirts of Asheville.

 

She’d been discovered in college by one Rupert Giles, her “mentor” and former professor who had come out of music management retirement to record and promote her shortly after graduation.  The surprise success of her limited-press album _(_ _Buffy Anne Summers: Must Be Tuesday_ ) reverberated across the southern states, leading to a limited-engagement "Southern Comfort" tour of Florida, Georgia, Tennessee, North Carolina, and South Carolina.  “Next up,” the article announced, “Summers gets to decide whether she’s ready for the demands and fame that a full North American and international touring schedule will undoubtedly bring.”

 

“Survey says, nope - you’re not ready,” Buffy muttered to herself, considering how Buffy Anne had nearly drunk both herself and the Slayer into oblivion just to get through a bachelorette party.  However was she going to wrangle this gal? She didn’t have to be a music business major to know that success like Buffy Anne’s didn’t come along every day. If she encouraged the Country Slayer to take a step back, she may never get the chance to bask in the limelight again.  But if she allowed Buffy Anne to continue on a longer, more rigorous, and exhausting tour, the Sunnydale Slayer didn’t think the body’s liver - or soul - would survive.

 

Plus, Buffy Anne could communicate with her - talk about a serious case of the wiggins - and at that disturbing memory, her heart began to pound and the panic flared.

 

“Whistler!  Please!”

 

Her bathroom door rattled and in a moment, he opened it and appeared in her room. He didn’t look disappointed; in fact, he looked frightened.

 

Buffy could feel a cold, dark, anger seethe out of her when she saw him.

 

“What. The. Hell.”

 

“I know, I’m tryna get you out of this.”

 

“Get me out?  So even the Powers know they screwed the pooch on this one?”

 

He winced.  “Yeah. This was never supposed to happen.”

 

“She’s strong-willed.  I get that. I would even, on any other day, give her major props for it.  But Whistler, she can _see_ me.  Not in a dream, not as the little voice inside, but actually the whole me.  That’s not how this is supposed to work, right?”

 

“I think it’s because, well, she’s an artist.  Big with the tortured kind. She’s used to hunting for inspiration wherever she can get it.  In both light and dark places.”

 

She shook her head.  “There’s something more.  There’s something really wrong with her.  I can control her now when I couldn’t last night.  There’s a reason for that.” Buffy paused and looked at Whistler in sudden understanding.  “She’s an alcoholic.”

 

“Not there yet, but definitely on the road.”  Whistler’s fear didn’t come from her, she realized.  He was frightened _for_ her.  

 

“This Giles is enabling her, too,” Buffy added, starting to fume.  “Where are her people? The crowd from last night isn’t worth a damn. Doesn’t she have anyone to call her on her crazy?”

 

“Slayer.” Whistler hung his head sadly.  “Think about that one. When you get set on a path, how easy are you to throw off?”

 

Buffy thought about how many times the Scoobies had disappointed her, her words from last year bubbling to the surface: “I guess I'm starting to understand why there's no ancient prophecy about a Chosen One and her friends.”  Shoot, even a few weeks ago they couldn’t tell her apart from a damn robot. That had stung. But, she thought grudgingly, in all fairness, she could get rather… single-minded at times. No, her friends were certainly not perfect people.  But at least they tried. At least they were there.

 

“So she had people and they’ve either died, like her parents, or she’s pushed them away.” Buffy sighed.  “Fantastic. It’s only a matter of time before she comes to and and starts running the show again.”

 

Impulsively, Buffy jumped up and grabbed the full bottle of schnapps that Giles had left on her nightstand.  With that in hand, she started rummaging through all of the luggage, finding a couple more schnapps flasks and dozens of little mini-bar bottles secreted in the pockets and under her clothes.  Taking handfuls of them at a time, she rushed to the bathroom and opened them all out into the sink, shaking their contents down the drain. She went to the mini-bar itself and cleared those bottles out, too, until the whole bathroom garbage can had been filled to the brim with glass.

 

The futility floored her.

 

“Now I just have to worry about all of the alcohol in the rest of the world.”

 

She slumped back down on the bed.

 

“Why would the Powers even bring me here?  I don’t have a drug problem. Just say no? Not even a thing!  I say ‘no’ all the damn time.”

 

“Slayer, I’m sorry,” Whistler apologized.  “I didn’t mean for it to go down like this.”

 

“If she wants to pull a Leaving Nash Vegas, I don’t think I could stop her. That could take months for her to pull off.  Maybe even years. Then I’m even further away from…” She stopped while pondering that choice.

 

Whistler’s expression perked up.  “You decided where you wanna go when you’re done?”

 

“Not even a little.  But I’m thinking that to have these lives finished will be like being crowned the Sole Survivor.”  

 

Buffy was shaking.  From anger or delirium tremens, she couldn’t know.  That old, ugly helplessness swirled up and suffocated her - how so very tired she felt from it, as though Glory and her minions were on her heels and all she could do was run.

 

Wait.

 

_I beat up a hell god._

 

Sure, she’d had to jump into the portal because that disgusting Glory fan had bled Dawn anyway, but still.  That didn’t change how she’d trounced Glorificus to kingdom come. The reminder bathed Buffy in a steady wave of calm.  This reality’s Buffy Anne Summers may’ve been the queen of country music, but she was no god.

 

_You’re just a girl._

 

“As soon as we can swing it, we’ll break you outta here and find you another Buffy who - ”

 

“Don’t.”  She met Whistler’s eyes.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Don’t break me out.” She sighed, her anger draining away.  “I’ll stay.”

 

Whistler’s eyes widened.  “You sure, Slayer?”

 

“Yeah,” she breathed, letting the idea take root.  “It’s kind of the point of this exercise, right? That she needs another kind of Slayer?  She needs me. Damned if I’m going to bail on her now and let her become another member of the 27 Club.”

 

Relief flooded his face.  “Slayer, that’s huge. You’re bein’ a total boss about this and we won’t forget it.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” She waved her hand. “I know.  No checklist, no scoreboard. I can’t promise she’ll get through all of the twelve steps but I can at least get her to the stairs.”  Buffy paused. “Hey, speaking of which, how’s the Coach doing anyway?”

 

Whistler gave her a puzzled little smile.  “She’s good.”

 

Buffy hesitated, trying to be nonchalant.  “Are they, like, you know, together or whatever?”

 

Whistler nodded slowly, looking at Buffy curiously.  “Yeah, they’re happy. You put the 24 karat in their golden years.” He scratched his head. “My mind’s kinda blown that she’s still on your radar.”

 

Buffy looked at him quizzically.  “Why? She’s me. Of course I’m going to worry about her.  I’ve got a feeling I’m going to wonder about all of these Buffys for the rest of my life.”  She caught Whistler’s grin. “Even if that’s going to be over after the next reality or five,” she amended.  “Jury’s still out.”

 

“Sure, Slayer.” Whistler kept grinning.  “I got you.”

 

“You still have to count this as the second of my three consults, don’t you?”

 

He winced and nodded reluctantly.

 

“It’s okay.  Hopefully this is the last help I’m going to need for a good long time.  Go on.” She fluttered her fingers toward him like little feet. “Scurry and let me get on with this.  Find me a Buffy who just needs help getting out a sliver or something.”

 

Once he tipped his hat to her and disappeared back into the bathroom, Buffy turned back to the box of fan magazines in a further search of any helpful intel.  In the third one she flipped through dated from a month ago, Buffy Anne gave an interview about her “amazing team,” including some unnamed personal assistant who “keeps me grounded and focused and would do anything for me - probably already has.”  

 

She turned to the nightstand and saw the handwritten list Giles had placed next to the phone with the extensions of this dubiously amazing team, from himself to hairdresser, makeup, wardrobe, and security listed.  Other than his own, no names were written next to these titles. “Assistant” didn’t exist.

 

She picked up the phone and dialed 5124.

 

“Where is my assistant?” she barked into the phone.

 

“Buffy?” Giles answered, obviously barely coming out of a deep sleep.  “Dear Lord, you’re awake?”

 

Eyeing the clock next to her for the first time, she inwardly flinched when she saw the time reading 7am.  Oopsie.

 

She frowned with a renewed resolve.  “Where?”

 

Giles groaned tiredly on the other end.  “Buffy, don’t you remember? You fired your entire staff a month ago.  Your personal assistant included. Despite my best efforts to convince you otherwise, you claimed you didn’t need one and have been requiring me to shoulder those duties instead.”

 

“Well, shoulder no more.  See who you can get to come back.”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“Hair stylist, makeup artist, bring back whoever’s willing. I don’t care,”  she said recklessly. “But the personal assistant, Giles. That’s non-negotiable.”  She gripped the phone. “Do whatever it takes to nail that down.”

 

She heard Giles breathing on the other end.  “My dear, are you certain?”

 

“Yes, I’m certain.  Big with the certain.  Hugely fired up with the certain.  Can you make it happen or not?”

 

“I can certainly try,” he told her, sounding much more awake.  “Give me a few hours.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buffy remembers lines from Season 4 Episode 20 “The Yoko Factor.”
> 
> “You’re just a girl” from Season 5 Episode 22 “The Gift.”
> 
> “Helmont University” is not a real place in Nashville, but Belmont University is and I’ve based my college on theirs with a few tweaks. 
> 
> Look for introduction to this world's Spike in the next chapter!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 11 arrives and he appears! Welcome (finally!) to our Spike #2

“Hours,” Buffy muttered, pacing and mentally staking the clock as the minutes marched on.  “Don’t you get it’s only a matter of time until Honky Tonk Courtney Love bellies back up to the bar?”  

 

Buffy had hung up with Giles and immediately called room service, ordering a pot of coffee, pancakes, waffles, muffins, and every other starch on the menu in the hopes it would soak up a few drops of whatever Buffy Anne would pour down her throat later.  

 

Finally around ten, a knock came at the door and Buffy practically flung herself toward it to answer.

 

Her mouth dropped open.  “ _You’re_ my personal assistant?”

 

“Huh?  What frickin’ bizarro world did you wake up in?  Noooo - styling your very split ends suits me just fine, thank you very much.  And by the way: before I hop back on your train of loco, you better be giving me a raise.  A big one.”

 

Buffy gaped.

 

Cordelia stood in the doorway, arms folded and tapping her foot.  “You tell me, cowgirl. Am I in or am I out?”

 

“In.” Buffy nodded, recovering from her surprise and stepping away from the door.  “All in.”

 

“Good,” Cordy chirped with a satisfied little grin.  “Cordelia Chase miracle worker, reporting for duty.” She gave a jaunty salute and strolled into the room.

 

The Cordy in this world resembled who Buffy remembered a year ago when Angel had so unceremoniously kicked her out of “his” town - with a few notable exceptions.  This Cordelia flaunted stunning auburn hair with blonde highlights, some oversized tortoise-shell cat eye glasses and a floppy black suede hat. Sporting boho chic at its best, she wore vintage bell bottoms decorated with embroidered daisies, brown suede sandal wedges, and a corsettey black top.

 

"So I sent your replacement hair, makeup, and wardrobe temps packing since they obviously can’t do their jobs for shit.” She glanced at Buffy with a critical eye.  “Kind of telling that you needed three of them to replace one of me and they still couldn’t hack it, huh?”

 

Buffy sighed.  “Yep.” While she couldn’t say Cordelia Chase had ever been her favorite person, Buffy knew her brand of tough love was exactly what this Buffy needed.

 

“Until my upgraded hotel suite is ready, then”— she smirked at Buffy— “here I am.  Holy carb fest.” She goggled at the array of silver trays on carts scattered around the room.  “Please tell me this is some kind of new miracle diet that works like gangbusters.”

 

“Help yourself,” Buffy said wearily with a wave, dropping onto the corner of the bed.  “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover and not much time.”

 

Cordelia glanced at her questioningly but grabbed a croissant and flopped into one of the suite’s club chairs.  

 

“Okay, I’m fortified.  Spill.”

 

“I’ve got a problem.”

 

Cordy grinned as she took a bite.  “Singular?”

 

“Cordelia, I’m serious.”

 

“Well, that’s a relief.  It’s about time. Got coffee, too?”  

 

Buffy pointed to a pot at the table by the one hotel balcony window.

 

“Great, two creams and half a sugar, please, if you’d be so kind,” she said blithely and leaned back into her chair while putting her feet up on the coffee table.

 

“Right.” Buffy gritted her teeth but fixed a cup to Cordy’s specifications and delivered it with an outstretched hand.  “Anything else?”

 

Cordy pursed her lips at Buffy cutely and snatched the cup. “I’ll let you know.”  She indicated the chair across from her. “Sit.”

 

Buffy obeyed and the two women looked at each other silently for a moment while Cordy sipped her coffee.

 

“You get that’s why we so-called ‘ganged up on’ you, right?  It’s called an intervention.”

 

“I figured.  Was Giles in on it, too?”

 

“Did you fire him?”

 

Buffy lowered her eyes.

 

“He didn’t agree or disagree, wouldn’t join us but wouldn’t stop us either.  Thus assuring me that aside from some gorgeous men and great chocolate, Switzerland will never be my favorite country.”

 

“Cordy, I’m sorry.  I’m sorry for what I did and I’m really sorry for what I’m going to do.”

 

“What do you mean ‘going to do?’”

 

Buffy looked at her.  “I’m really messed up.  How I am right now? I can only be like this when I’m not drinking.  Once I get booze in me, I’m a totally different person.”

 

“You can say that again.”

 

“I need your help.  Keep me away from alcohol as much as you can.  I know.” She held up her hand when she saw Cordy begin to protest.  “I can’t co-depend. You’re not a therapist or a counselor and if I get out of hand, you’re gonna have to cart me to rehab stat.  I want the chance to try to beat this on my own but you’ve got free rein to Betty Ford me at any time. Promise.”

 

Cordelia looked at her suspiciously.  “You’re saying that like this, totes sobes, you’re on board the good ship recovery with no strong-arming necessary?”

 

“That’s it.”

 

“Okay.” She nodded slowly.  “Buffy, you’re asking a lot.  But you also give a lot, when you’re not totally self-destructive and shitfaced.  We used to be great friends and that’s what I’m holding on to.”

 

Buffy smiled.  “Thank you.”

 

“I can’t do this alone, though.” Cordy frowned.  “I don’t know who else would be willing to come back, either.”

 

“Giles is working on it.  Hopefully at least - ”

 

“If you’re gonna say Will, I think you’re fresh out of luck.”

 

Buffy’s heart sank.  Willow would really help here, she of the level head.  Who better to keep her from sliding into oblivion?

 

“I was that bad?”

 

Cordelia arched an eyebrow.  “Let’s just say there are some things that are almost impossible to come back from.  Then there’s the number you pulled. It would take a miracle.” Buffy heard a buzzing and Cordy reached into her leather satchel to pull out a silver Palm Pilot.

 

“My room’s ready,” she announced.  “Call me at extension 5150 - so apropos.  Thanks for this, by the way.” She shook the device in her hand.  “Super helpful.”

 

“I didn’t even have your number.  When did I buy you that?”

 

“About an hour ago.  Another term of my new employment contract.” She grinned cheekily.

 

“Seriously, Cordy.  Add whatever clauses and bullet points you want.  You’re worth it, really. Just make sure - ”

 

“I know, no booze.  The rest of this tour will be drier than a Baptist picnic on Sunday.  Okay, now I’ve got to undo all of the wardrobe damage for the rest of your shows unless you want to continue looking like a Dollywood reject.”  She jumped up and hesitated, then wrapped Buffy into a tight hug.

 

“Thanks for having me back,” she whispered, squeezing her.  Then she left the room.

 

Cordelia. Buffy never expected to be so excited and relieved to have a person like Cordelia in her corner, but she felt immensely grateful that this world’s Cordy could so readily forgive.

 

She crossed the room to pour probably her eighth cup of coffee that morning and heard another knock.  For a moment, her stomach seized in fear that perhaps Cordy had changed her mind.

 

Dreading the confrontation about to occur, she opened the door and saw a completely different but still familiar person awaiting with a scowl.

 

“There she is.”

 

Buffy gulped.  Spike. Again.

 

Only he didn’t really look exactly like her Spike - her _reality’s_ Spike, that is.  Black t-shirt, check.  Black jeans, check. Black boots, check.   But this twenty-something Spike had black Wayfarer sunglasses stabbed on the top of his head that he seemed to wear without irony.  And the hair on that familiar head: grown-out dark brown curls with a splash of blonde on the tips making the style look artfully messy.  Sexy.

 

_Yikes.  That’s you thinking this, right, Buffy Anne?   I do not, as a general rule, put “Spike” and “sexy” in the same sentence.  Except general rules - along with private rules and probably lieutenant ones as well - aren’t amounting to jack these days so okay.  Spike. Sexy. Sexy at seventy and sexy in this doorway. I can admit it and not have the earth open up and swallow me whole. Now what the hell is sexyish Spike doing here?_

 

As he opened his mouth to speak, the bleat of a ring stopped him short.  He held up a hand in irritation and fished the offending phone out of his pocket to answer.

 

“This is Will…”

 

And Buffy didn’t need to hear anything else.  Will. Not _Willow_ “if you’re gonna say Will, I think you’re fresh out of luck” like Cordy had said, but _Will_.  Short for William.  AKA Spike.

 

Spike was her personal assistant.

 

Her thoughts stopped once the man in front of her ended the call.

 

“That,” he intoned while holding up the phone meaningfully before stuffing it back in his pocket.  “Was a job offer. Which I claimed I no longer needed.”

 

“Uh, yay?” Buffy tried hopefully.

 

He leveled her with a glare.  “That depends on you, pet. I’ve got ground rules.  And they’re non-negotiable.” He shoved past her and stalked into her hotel room.

 

“Sure,” she muttered.  “Come on in.” She felt more than slightly unnerved that none of these Spikes would need an invitation to enter her personal space.

 

“Oh-ho, don’t even go there.” He chuckled darkly.  “We both know the second Rupes dialed me all our pretense went straight out the window.  You need me.” He lifted his chin pridefully. “You’ve always needed me but now you’re up against it and you know it.  I’m all you’ve got.”

 

“Cordelia’s on board, too, you know,” she muttered stubbornly.

 

“Queen C’s got the patience of a saint, if you’re talking Saint Bitchface Gofuckyourself.  She’s got at least an ounce of self-preservation. Me on the other hand. You and I both know how far I’ll go down.”

 

The combination of cold sarcasm icing his suggestive words with his magnificent jaw doing all kinds of facial bench presses caused Buffy to wildly entertain the most extremely dirty thoughts she’d ever had about Spike.  Something about how liquid diets and fangs and biting and cigarettes and oral fixations would make for happy fun times all the way down between her legs. But this Spike looked so damn lethal in his anger, she had no illusions he’d hit some fresh new depths in the land of debasement here.  

 

He took two steps toward her and glowered into her face.

 

“Your life belongs to me now.”

 

And God help her, her whole body wanted to melt into his.

 

“What do you want?” she whispered.

 

Satisfaction gleamed in his eyes.  “So glad you asked.” He whipped away from her and walked over to the adjoining door that separated her room from the one next door.

 

“First of all, this?  Never locks.” When he unlatched it and opened it, Buffy could see that the door on the other side had already been opened.  “That’s my room in every city we visit. Home of your permanent 24-7 sitter. Don’t go lookin’ for booze over there, either.  Not so much as a bottle of bloody cough syrup or mouthwash to guzzle. Next…”

 

He walked over to her own mini-bar and yanked the door open.  “This all goes - ”

 

“…down the drain?” she finished weakly.  “Way ahead of you.”

 

Will straightened up and looked at her without a shred of his smug fury but with the barest glimmer of hope.  

 

“And your not-so-secret stash in your luggage?”

 

“I think I got it all.”  She shrugged. “You can check.  I mean, you should probably anyway.”

 

He stared at her with his hands on his hips.  “You’re not fucking around.”

 

“Not the last I checked.  No.” She shook her head. “B-but I’m a mess.  There’s a part of me that’s going to wake up and crave a drink like”-she rolled her eyes at the inevitability of the metaphor-“a vampire craves blood.  I’m not going to make it easy for you.”

 

His expression softened.  “‘Course you’re not. What fun would that be?”  He flashed a hint of a smile and those familiar blue eyes twinkled with mischief.

 

Damn.  Way too distracting.

 

“So Cordelia gave me her list of requirements.”  Buffy wrapped her arms around herself. “What are your terms for coming back?” she asked brusquely.

 

She might as well have doused him with ice water.  

 

The impenetrable expression returned.  “Right. Like I told your man: a year’s supply of smokes, guaranteed roadie selection, merry bushels of cash, and most importantly, a guarantee that I'm not to be in any way fired.”

 

The one stipulation came as a surprise.  “You want to pick the roadies?”

 

“If they’re all in recovery like you, they won’t be able to slip you booze on the sly.”  He tapped his temple with his index finger knowingly.

 

“Because that’s totally happened,” she said evenly.  Based on the ease with which she’d gotten the smuggled drink last night, she guessed more than once.

 

Will looked sad.  “More times than I care to count.  It’s my fault for not taking your bull by the horns before now.  So, like I said: non-negotiable.”

 

She shrugged.  “Fine. But this isn’t going to be perfect.  No matter how much I want it to be.” Her chin trembled.   It could be a title for her future memoir if she chose not to kick it:   _Imperfect Despite Best Efforts: the Buffy Summers Story._

 

“Ain’t nothing perfect,” he told her softly.  “Unless it’s heaven you’re after.”

 

“Boy howdy, some days more than others,” she couldn’t help but answer with a wry grin.

 

With two steps he’d reached her and took her hands in his.  “Let heaven wait a bit on you, yeah? You’re much more needed here.”

 

And oh, that echo from somewhere in her own world vibrated once again against her skin.  Her Spike’s voice reached out to her from wherever she lingered in Sunnydale and spoke the exact same words:   _you’re needed here, Buffy…_ For a moment, she felt as though she could lean right into his voice.  Then the intense look of the Spike in front of her zipped her back to this reality.

 

“Needed?  Oh, yeah, because this world’s obviously suffering for lack of twangy country pop.” She snorted.  “I’m happy to give a big fat shove to the fall of decent music as we know it.”

 

She froze. Slayer Buffy’s sentiments on her host’s musical taste notwithstanding, the words she blurted out didn’t feel totally her own.  Now that she really paid attention, she’d had another consciousness riding shotgun with her for a while. Not the hell raiser of a drunk from last night but someone very close to her own real self, which is why she hadn’t really noticed her before.  Could the Slayer have more in common with the sober version of the country star than she thought?

 

Will didn’t look surprised or perturbed by her downgrading her own music, however.

 

“That’s not why you’re necessary,” he scolded her gently.  “‘Sides, I’ve told you. It never had to be this way. You’ve let Giles warp you into what he thinks you should be.  You let him do it because you think he’s a surrogate daddy or some rot. Grow up, baby. You - we - were sorted without him.”  He paused. “Weren’t we?”

 

Buffy pressed her fingers to her eyelids.  She honestly didn’t know what had become more unnerving in these two realities - how different they were or how they held so much of the same.  

 

What would her life be like without a Giles to remind her of her duty and to never, ever let her forget what Spike was (Undead Soulless Evil KillerⓇ) and what he could never be (helpful, loyal, reformed)?  On one hand, she could imagine herself having been killed several times over. On the other, she could feel the barest pinprick of possibly being… free.

 

“I don’t remember feeling ‘sorted’ for some time,” she mumbled.  That felt all too true for both herself and the Inner Buffy curled up next to her.  She glanced over at Will. “Maybe we were once but I can’t go backwards now. I don’t know what to do with _her_ in the meantime.”

 

From the unruffled look on his face, this Will/Spike person seemed to know exactly what she meant by that.

 

“Your Slayer you mean,” he answered easily.

 

And when she nodded slowly, she realized that this was the conversation she needed to have with this guy:  who was this girl’s Slayer and what did she mean to her life? Did she even know what a Slayer was for? Well, maybe it was high time she learned.

 

That was, if the Slayer herself even knew.

 

“I need more than trays of pastries for this conversation,” he told her with a glance around the room.  Then he nodded toward the bathroom. “Get dressed. Preferably in something low-key that won’t attract the country music paparazzi.”

 

Buffy scowled.  “Thanks ever so,” she mimicked.

 

He barked out a laugh.  “There are some lines of mine you’ll never get to steal, love, that being one of them.  Go on. We’ll get you some proper food. I’ll be next door waiting.”

 

***

 

In its natural state, Buffy Anne’s glossy dark hair had only a hint of a wave to it, easy to pull back into a ponytail under a pink trucker’s hat that had an “H” with a music staff on it.  With black t-shirt, torn and faded jeans, scuffed trainers, and sunglasses, the Slayer didn’t feel like herself in the least but certainly didn’t feel conspicuous. When she met Will back in his room, he nodded as though she passed inspection and grabbed her hand.  

 

“Let’s go.”

 

Holding hands with Spike.

 

Only not Spike because warmth.  Because pulse. Because… _God, he is frickin’ gorgeous and completely confident and in absolute control and who knew that could be a turn-on but two steps out the door, he’s just proven why_ The Bodyguard _should have a country music remake with him kicking Kevin Costner to the curb.  Hello, my name is Buffy Summers and I have a competence kink_.  He’d put his sunglasses back on before they’d even hit the outdoors and that impenetrable look, combined with his swagger of authority, made her feel safe and protected in this humanly-weak body in a way that she never had to worry about as a vampire slayer.  No way that beer-bellied loser from the bar last night would’ve laid one finger on her if this Spike had been there. The Slayer could feel this version exude a palpable strength of will, as though it was at the heart of his very life force.

 

While she certainly didn’t need Spike looking out for her, for the briefest tick Buffy imagined a world in which she could actually trust him enough to let him drive occasionally - in a number of ways.  Then again, hadn’t she when they fought Glory together? She’d entrusted Dawn to him, the only one other than herself strong enough to protect her greatest treasure. If it hadn’t been for that demon acolyte bunging up the works by bleeding Dawn, Spike would’ve had her safely in his arms - Buffy knew it - and oddly, she harbored no blame for his inability to do so.  He’d tried. Hell, he’d done more with a chip and a lack of a soul than any vampire she’d ever known and _whoa_ …

 

Suddenly she couldn’t help but wonder what Angelus would’ve been like with a chip in his head and instantly, she knew:  he would’ve either sawed open his own skull to fish it out himself or tortured someone into doing it, while in the meantime, he would’ve hired every damn demon in the tri-state area to make her life a living hell on his behalf.  Other than trying to bargain with Adam and kidnapping the doctor when Riley was sick, Spike hadn’t shown any further interest in even getting the chip out. As for minions to do any evil bidding, pathetic Harmony had him well beat in that department.

 

So, why? Why was Spike so different?  And why was another version of him in a Buffy life _again_?

 

This reality’s Spike led her on a similar journey out of the hotel to the one she had stumbled through with Giles hours earlier, depositing them at a service entrance where he spoke brief Spanish and bumped fists with a young man in a catering uniform.  The minute they exited near one of the side parking lots, Buffy got hit with a magnolia-scented wave of humidity and she knew she’d traveled far from the mountain breezy comfort of Colorado.

 

This air wasn’t California hot but Southern sticky.  The black t-shirt she wore (a twin to his, she now realized) soaked up the hazy rays of the sun like a sponge.  Jeans, even ripped ones, were proving to be a bad idea as a flash of sweat broke out on her thighs under the denim while they walked toward the parked cars.  He led her to a battered but vintage black Ford Mustang and unlocked her door with the set of keys jingling in his hand.

 

She glanced at the ancient dashboard as he slid into the driver’s seat.  “Don’t suppose you ever sprung for air conditioning in this little number?”

 

He grunted.  “You and your bloody AC.  That’s what windows are for.  I swear you’re not a real southerner.”

 

“Ha,” she breathed out and cranked down her window.  “You’re probably right.” Through this Buffy’s voice, she heard barely a twinge of a drawl at all.

 

“You can lay it on bloody thick on command, though.  All right. The usual?”

 

Buffy had no idea what “the usual” was but nodded all the same and he gunned the motor of the car to peel them away from the hotel.  As they passed by the front entrance, she saw a group of about twenty girls wearing cowboy hats, milling around and carrying paper signs in neon colors while being kept away from the door by hotel security.  The Slayer squinted behind her sunglasses to read the signs and was surprised to see the words, “WE LOVE YOU BUFFY!” “THE SLAYER ROCKS!” and similar sentiments of affirmation.

 

“I have fans,” she uttered aloud in awe.

 

“Yeah, a few,” he said sarcastically.  “Who would care soddin’ less if you stopped being Rupert’s idea of the Slayer in favor of your own.  It’s not that image they care about, love. It’s you. Your voice. Your talent. Should be on your terms as well.”

 

She stared at him.  Who was he to her here?  Personal assistant didn’t seem to quite cover it.

 

“I brought the statements to go over,” he continued.  “Just need to pull them from the back. Figure I can bill this as a working lunch?” He glanced at her with the corner of his mouth hitched up in a half grin.

 

“Sure,” she murmured, turning to the open window and letting the close, muggy air stir on her cheeks as Nashville whizzed by.  Chalk up another tourist attraction she’d never gotten to see before her ever-so-timely demise. Buffy Anne knew in her heart where Will was headed but the Slayer felt like the stranger to this city that she was.  All she could do was sit back and try to enjoy the ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spike’s reimagined dialogue from Season 2 Episode 22 “Becoming Part 2” and Season 4 Episode 20 “The Yoko Factor.”


	12. Chapter 12

Will drove them out to a highway, past a landmark called the Cumberland River but the wind over the water offered no reprieve from the stifling heat and impenetrable humidity.  He cranked the car vent fans as high as they would go and it felt like being panted on by a large dog. The body of Buffy Anne, the Slayer realized, equally suffered from the temperature.  

 

From highway to city streets and following signs toward Vanderbilt University, Will wound them past a Hampton Inn and down a narrow, car-lined street.  He parallel parked with ease, jumped out his side to come round and pull an expensive-looking leather briefcase from the back seat behind her, then opened her car door.  Grabbing her hand protectively, he crossed the quiet street and walked them two blocks in silence. He stopped at a nondescript building that looked like it had existed there long before the rest of the newer neighborhood around it.  With greige-colored stone on the lower half, sandstone blocks above, festooned with a worn, green striped awning, and two large windows on either side of the beaten, maple door, the ancient green and red neon sign overhead welcomed them to Rotier’s Restaurant. He ducked them inside.

 

The place was blessedly cool if not fancy, smelling like grilled meat and grease, warm vanilla and coffee.  A long bar with green vinyl seats and wood paneling greeted them front and center, but Will led her right to one of the empty, sagging booths along the side of the wall.  

 

An older woman, who reminded Buffy of a waitress character named Flo on a TV show Joyce used to watch, came up to them immediately with glasses of ice water and an order pad.

 

“Been a long time, kids,” she drawled, cracking her gum.  “You know whatcha want?”

 

Will grabbed one of the menus waiting for them on the scuffed table and pointed to several items.  Flo scribbled on the pad and stuck the pencil she wrote with behind her ear, nodding.

 

“You got it, honey.  Sweet teas comin’ up.”

 

Will barely looked at Buffy but opened up the briefcase in the booth seat next to him and pulled out some official looking papers.  

 

“So the funds are doing well.  Got you in Goldman Sachs, BP, Amazon, and Google, put the rest in gold.  I took twenty five percent out of your cash and reinvested it. Your old savings ain’t earning jack shit in interest, though, so I got the bulk of it in a 401K.  What?”

 

The Slayer hadn’t heard much of anything after “funds” when her eyes dropped to the papers he held and read, upside down, the list of zeros after the commas.  Her mouth fell open.

 

“How much?” Buffy Anne uttered from somewhere behind the Slayer.

 

He looked at her blankly.  “Whassat?”

 

“How much…” she gulped.  “Total?”

 

His face went inscrutable.  “Investments, funds, and accounts?”  He shrugged. “All told, just over three hundred thousand.”

 

Inside, the Slayer nearly keeled over as though she were an old-fashioned Southern debutante who’d been struck by the vapors, one sorely in need of a paper fan and a fainting couch.  _Why, Captain Pratt,_ _I do declare…_

 

“Three hundred thousand _dollars_?” she squeaked.

 

“No - kittens,” he deadpanned with a roll of his eyes.  “Of course, dollars. Christ, Buffy, give me a shred of credit.  Been investing for you since we met.” He leaned into her. “It was _how_ we met.  Remember? You sing. We write. I invest.  The perfect business relationship,” he added, with a trace of bitterness.  “Or so I thought.”

 

“It is,” Buffy Anne hurriedly assured him.  “Will, it still is.”

 

His whole face reassembled itself from all of its hard lines to an aching, innocent hope.  “Yeah?” 

 

“Yeah.”  She nodded quickly, licking her dry lips and chugging her ice water down.  “I’m sorry for all I did to make you think otherwise.”

 

At that, Will’s shoulders finally relaxed. 

 

“Fuck, it’s good to see you again,” he whispered.  

 

Inside, Buffy Anne’s heart roared like a freight train.  Oh, how very complicated this girl had become, if she had ever been easy.  Thanks to the Slayer doing mental cartwheels in her head over how damn competent this guy was in her life, the Nashville Slayer realized that he’d never abandoned her, even after she fired him.  He’d been in her corner the whole time, loyal to a fault - and how. Yet something was missing. She still ached. She wanted… something. _What’s left?_ the Slayer yelled at her.  _You should marry him, dummy.  Anybody who can do that with your money and look like this while doing it is a god.  Oh, wait a minute._ Was that the problem?  Did Buffy Anne _want_ to marry this guy?  Or did she think she _should_ because all her old friends were shacking up?  Buffy Anne gave her no answers. Maybe because she hadn’t figured them out for herself.

 

Flo came back long enough to deposit two sweating glasses of iced tea and a plate of what looked like French fries smothered with brown gravy and cheese.

 

Will cocked a brow and opened up his hands to her.  “Do us the honors?”

 

Buffy Anne nodded and folded her hands on the formica.  “Lord, for what we are about to receive, may you make us truly thankful.  Amen.”

 

“Reckon my soul’s in dire straits since I haven’t had my food blessed like that in a month,” he noted sardonically, dropping a paper napkin from the table dispenser on his lap.  “Dig in.” He started on the fries while Buffy sipped on the tea. She’d barely taken a mouthful when her teeth ached in alarm from the amount of sugar in the drink. Sweet tea, indeed. She gasped and set it down.  

 

“How did that even happen?” she blurted, indicating the pile of papers at his elbow.

 

He watched her wonderingly, then chewed and swallowed.  “It was slow going at first, as you know. In the last year, the residuals from your album and the tour, not to mention the clothing line, bumped you up considerably.  The more you make, the more I can invest, and the more I can take advantage of opportunities.” He opened up his mouth like he was going to say something and then shook his head at himself and reached out his fork to stab more fries.

 

So the “Slayer” boots weren’t custom-made for her, they were merchandise.  A result of her sudden stardom and another little piece of herself that she’d bartered away.

 

_Sheesh._ The Slayer mentally rolled her eyes. _Got anything left of ours to stick a price tag on?_

 

“I sold out but good,” the Slayer noted with a wry little laugh.  Inside, Buffy Anne froze, in a sudden awareness of how deep that truth ran and how much she needed to reach out to the man across from her.

 

Will put down his fork and immediately covered her hands with his.  “And now you can stop.”

 

Buffy Anne pushed herself around the Slayer and squeezed him back.

 

“The Slayer’s pissed,” she jumped in as though he hadn’t spoken.  “I got this all wrong. I was never meant to go this far or to make it like this.  She’s been tryna school me for months,” she continued miserably. “God knows I couldn’t drink her quiet.  Now I wanna stop. I have to stop.” She gazed at Will. “How do I stop?”

 

“We’re gonna figure it out together,” he told her, his warm voice comforting and patient.  

 

_Okay, straight up, Buffy Anne: this kind of guy won’t leave right after your mother dies or bolt right after your graduation without so much as a kiss goodbye.  This is the kind of guy who will nearly kill himself to protect your little sister,_ the Slayer advised and then stopped.  She had one of these guys. She’d had one for quite some time and had taken him for granted almost as spectacularly as this Buffy had with hers.  Of course, up until recently, William the Bloody had been more akin to a heroic couch in her mind than the flesh-and-blood man sitting across from her borrowed body now.  The thought that she could go back to her life in Sunnydale and treat him differently filled her with hope and longing - and abject fear.

 

“Buffy, this,” he nodded to the paperwork, “this is what we planned for.  This is the safety net, love. This is the result of not being in debt. Of a good shopping trip meaning you got jeans with the tags still on from Goodwill.  Of selling your Jeep, your pop’s truck, the house you grew up in, your mum’s engagement diamond - everything of material value and investing it in something bigger:  yourself.”

 

Buffy Anne had a lump in her throat.  She’d sold too much. So much that she had nothing left to hold onto other than elusive talent and fickle fame.  Perhaps that’s why Will had showed her the account balances today - so that she had something substantial to grab a hold of.

 

_What about him?  You can hold on to him.  I know you want him,_ the Slayer wondered _, but how?_

 

“Not just me,” she whispered.  “Us. It was always supposed to be us.”

 

“Okay, then,” he agreed easily, as though he was merely placating her.  “We can go back to that if you like. Just get me back on the payroll.” He grinned but there was nervousness behind it.

 

And something about that made both the Buffys uneasy.  The Slayer remembered his line from the hotel: _we both know how far I’ll go down._ Whatever had he sacrificed for her?

 

“Will, when you left…”

 

“When you fired me, you mean,” he reminded her pointedly.  “Well, I guess it wasn’t official, was it? I mean, you threw a camcorder at my head and told me to get the hell out of your life.”

 

So that’s what had happened to the camera that could play the videotapes she found.

 

Buffy winced.  “Sorry about that.”

 

“Yeah, you said.  I’m here so I’m over it but fuck, Buffy.  I’ve got bills of my own to pay and I can’t be batted about like a bloody cat toy.  Either I’m on board or not. I won’t hold you to a contract ‘cause that’s not us but…” He leaned into her, looking at her with a desperate longing.  “Buffy, the place I need to show you, we could walk there. It’d take ten minutes, tops…”

 

For a moment, the Slayer felt Buffy Anne’s consciousness struggling to remember and make sense of...something.  She’d missed something important here and the fear of that, combined with the guilt she felt about forgetting, made her want to slam Will’s suggestion back faster than a kamikaze shot. 

 

“N-no,” Buffy Anne stammered.  “I-I’m sorry. I can’t. Not today, okay?  I-it’s just too much.”

 

Will leaned back into the booth, clearly dejected.  “Not today,” he agreed grudgingly.  

 

“Soon,” Buffy heard her voice say.  “You’ll get everything back that you’re owed, I’ll make sure of it.  I just…tell me what to do.” She met his eyes and he looked back at her with heartbreaking honesty.

 

“I can’t do that, love.  I know that’s what you want but you have to choose.  I’ll be here for you regardless but…” He shook his head and looked down sadly.

 

“I don’t wanna do the tour.”

 

His head snapped up.  “Have you told Giles?”

 

“Not so much.”

 

“Okay, that’s something then.” Will smiled at her gently.  “So about this place I want to show you…”

 

“One decision at a time, okay?” she replied teasingly, but nervousness cascaded over her, made her palms wet and her back damp and her jaw lock.  Somewhere between terror and hangover, Buffy Anne swung crazily in between, making one conflicted pendulum.

 

_What damn place are y’all talking about?_ the Slayer queried.  _Oh, God, I’m already talking like you and it’s barely been a day._

 

Then lookalike Flo the waitress sidled up with her hands full of what looked like cheddar cheese melted on huge burgers under slabs of French bread, a plate of deep fried pickle spears, and (the Slayer had to smile) a basket of chicken wings redolent with Tabasco scented steam.  Buffy Anne tore into what had to be one of the best cheeseburgers of the Slayer’s young life and conversation temporarily halted.

 

***

After however many days of hospital food, Rotier’s fare tasted even more heavenly than the delicious greasy-spoon delight that she knew it must be.  Even Will looked impressed with how much she put away.

 

“You forgetting to feed yourself?” he grunted.  “Slayer can’t live by coffee and croissants alone.”

 

“Mmmph,” she muttered around the last bites of gravy-soaked fries and she swallowed only to wrap her lips around a straw to slurp on the thickest chocolate milkshake she’d ever had.  

 

“You drank your dinner last night, didn’t you?” he asked her baldly and reluctantly she nodded.

 

“The Witches of East Helmont Dorms keep you out all night?”

 

Buffy Anne froze.  “It was Nicole’s bachelorette party.  How did you know I was out?”

 

Sighing, he flipped open the briefcase and tossed a local newspaper across to her.  A fuzzy picture of the Slayer getting “Slayed at Springwater” and led away to her limo by bouncer Bruno was in the top right-hand byline of the cover page.

 

“Oh, crap,” she muttered.  “Giles is gonna have a cow.”

 

“Let him,” Will spat.  “‘Bout time we crushed the Slayer’s pristine image.  Ding dong, the Slayer’s dead. Long live the brand new Slayer.” He grinned with a kind of bitter triumph.  

 

“But not like this.”  Buffy frowned. “I can’t be seen sloshin’ around town three sheets to the wind.  Girls listen to my album. Little girls.”

 

“Well, that’s the fault of their folks’ bad parenting.  Not yours. You’re not a sodding role model. You’re a person. Ain’t no one’s business what you do in your personal time.”

 

“Yeah, I guess, but…”

 

Mentally, the Slayer patted Buffy Anne’s head.  _I get it_.  _Boy, do I get it._

 

“That said, you won’t be making a habit of that kind of evening going forward, eh?” Will chewed on his bottom lip as he watched her warily.

 

“No, definitely not.”

 

“Not for the fans, either.  Sod the fans. It’s not good for _you_ , Buffy.  It’s gonna kill you and it’ll kill me to watch you go down like that.”  He swallowed hard. “Only reason I left.”

 

“I know,” she whispered.

 

“Let’s finish up.  Gotta get you to sound check.  Manager’s orders.”

 

***

 

“Can’t believe they’re breaking up Fan Fair this year,” Will complained as he pulled them back out onto the streets of West End Nashville.  “A bleeding rat race. What, schlepping from Riverfront Park and the Coliseum, plus the Mall and the Convention Center? Bollocks. What the hell was wrong with the fairgrounds?  It was a sodding institution. And there’ll be no backstage tent, of that you can be certain.”

 

“Remember, it’s no longer Fan Fair, it’s the CMA Music Festival,” Buffy Anne reminded him sweetly.  

 

“Fucking hell, they’re destroying everything gritty and decent about this town, leavin’ some sanitized shell,” he grumbled, then glanced at her.  “How many gigs Giles got you promised to?”

 

“Riverfront tonight, Bicentennial Mall at the carnival tomorrow, Convention Center to meet the fans on Sunday.”

 

“Seems a bloody lot of work for only one song per stage.”

 

“I’m being featured,” Buffy Anne replied with faux perkiness.  “This is how I get to rub butts with the big dogs. But only if I say ‘please.’  Then afterwards I might get a biscuit.”

 

“I’ll give you a biscuit,” he growled good-naturedly, with a wink.

 

“Promises, promises,” she sang.

 

“Helluva lot of drunks at Fan Fair.”  Will sighed. “You sure you’re up for it?”

 

Buffy Anne looked down.  “I only ever want to drink if I feel like I’m all alone.  Or scared. Or weak.”

 

“I best stick with you then.”

 

The girl smiled at her driver like a light through the windshield broke yonder east and he was her only sun, but a shadow fell over the Slayer’s heart.  This didn’t feel right. Instead, it felt vaguely like more serious problems were being swept aside so these two could hobble together in some three-legged race to an unknown finish line.   Question was, which of them would stumble first?

 

Will hit sudden traffic and cursed.  The next forty minutes were spent in a bumper to bumper slouch toward the signs pointing to Riverfront Park.

 

***

 

“Buffy, you’re late,” Giles rapped out when she and Will elbowed through the crowds to reach the stage. He hurried over to her and thrust her guitar in her arms.  “And there’s a certain photograph from last night we need to discuss…what the hell is he doing here?”

 

Will smirked behind his black sunglasses.  “Just out for a jaunt. Thought I’d swing by and say howdy.”

 

“He’s here because we need him,” the Slayer explained, trying not to smile at the echo of her and her own Spike’s words from a few weeks ago.  The whole area had become a confusing din of people darting back and forth, with their stink and their rushing and their anxiety in the heat, with the noise of warring voices and the tuning up of instruments and the squeal of microphone feedback.  But when she looked at Will, Buffy Anne felt something close to being “sorted.”

 

“Jimmy?” Buffy Anne grabbed the elbow of a passing roadie.  “Get Will a guitar, would you?”

 

Will looked shocked as he stabbed his sunglasses on top of his head.  “What’s this now?”

 

“Out,” said Giles curtly.

 

“No,” the Slayer snapped.  “He’s accompanying me, for God’s sake.  He stays. Get over it.” _This is what you want, right?_ the Slayer asked her body’s stunned consciousness inside and somewhere, the girl nodded vigorously.  _Then watch.  I did this part already._

 

Buffy Anne beckoned Will to one of the wooden stools sat up in the middle of the stage and patted the empty one next to the seat she slid into.  Jimmy the roadie returned with a shiny black acoustic guitar and put it into Will’s dumbfounded arms.

 

“Buffy, it’s one thing for William to be your personal assistant again.  It’s quite another for him to join you on stage. I didn’t agree to this.”

 

“I don’t recall asking you,” the Slayer responded.  “This is my music and my gig and I will sing it however I want.”  

 

_Oooh Slayer, baby.  I love your style, girl.  Go get ‘em._

 

_Call this a practice run for when I go back to my Giles.  If - that is. If I go back._

 

_Why the hell wouldn’t you go back?_

 

_Long story.  Let’s just get you through this._

 

Buffy Anne leveled Will with a steady stare.  “‘Dusted.’ You and me. Sung the right way.”

 

“One problem, pet,” Will hissed.  “I don’t sing.”

 

“So you’ll make an exception,” she whispered back.

 

And at that, his face went pale.

 

“Please?” she pleaded.  “For me?”

 

“Buffy, we’re already very behind,” Giles called behind her.  

 

“Fine,” Will croaked.  

 

For the first time, the Slayer felt something in Buffy Anne slide into place as though a long-missing puzzle piece finally clicked.  Likewise, she and Will plugged the electric jacks into their guitars with accompanying “clicks,” bringing their acoustic sounds to the waiting speakers.  Jimmy the roadie adjusted wireless neck mics on each of them and the Slayer noticed that Will’s hands were actually shaking.

 

“This is the way it’s always been meant to be performed,” she told him and after a brief warm up, the Nashville Slayer began a different song with Will’s deep, melodious undertone backing her up:

  
  


_Poured all my life blood into you_

_filled to the brim and bit straight through_

_you drained out all of my spark_

_left me lost in the dark_

_now all my pieces far and few_

 

_Because I'm_

_dusted_

_dried to the bone just_

_dusted_

_to the wind I've been thrown just_

_dusted_

_this house ain't a home since you uninvited me_

_dusted_

_your heart turned to stone_

_so dusted_

_how could you leave me alone? so_

_dusted_

_you were all I had known_

_dusted's all I can ever be_

_since you drove your stake through me_

 

_So cold and cower from the light_

_now I'm lost but to the night_

_you dug out a hole_

_where I once had a soul_

_nothing left in me to fight_

 

_Because I'm_

_dusted_

_you don't hear my cries 'cause I'm_

_dusted_

_by the ice in your eyes_

_so dusted_

_it should be no surprise_

_ash is all that's left, you see_

_since you took your love from me._

 

The Slayer tried not to giggle at the words, but this universe loved the overwrought slayer/vampire imagery.  All the roadies and hangers-on had stopped mid stride to listen to the song, applauding the practice run with numerous claps, cheers, and whistles.

 

“My dear, they’re expecting the ‘Ballad of the Slayer’ with the Slayer alone,” Giles told her tiredly, walking up to the couple when they finished.  

 

“Then they can learn to live with disappointment,” she replied.  “I want this song and I want Will to sing it with me. Also? He needs to get paid retroactively from the day I fired him.  Cordy, too.”  

 

Giles looked at her rather baffled.  “Buffy, what in the world has gotten into you?”

 

“The Slayer.” Buffy Anne grinned.  “The real live Slayer’s gotten into my head and under my skin until I get the damn stones to do it on my own.  Oooh, that’d be a good one, huh,” she said, elbowing Will. “Into my head, under my skin?”

 

He tilted his head, considering the lyric.  “Out of my mind, into your heart...that could be the equal and opposite reaction, then?  It could work.”

 

Giles fumed at her elbow.  “Buffy, about the newspaper photo this morning…”

 

“The Slayer walks the pretty line between light and dark,” she muttered, standing up and handing her guitar and mic to the waiting Jimmy.  “That was up close and personal with my darkness. My folk don’t like it they can get the hell off my lawn. That said…” Buffy Anne glared at Giles.  “No more booze. Not from you, not from nobody.”

 

“Yes, all right,” he replied impatiently.  “But I do think you’re rather making more of this than is truly necessary.  Plus, we haven’t even spoken about the tour yet and you must make a decision quite quickly.”

 

“So I will.  But not here.  Not now.” She glanced over her shoulder at Will.  “I got some rugs to cut. It’s Fan Fair after all, ain’t it?”

 

“Good for you, love,” Will rumbled in her ear as he grasped her hand and stalked with her off the stage.  But it was the legs of the Slayer that carried Buffy Anne away. These words and these actions were all the things she could never do on her own and Buffy worried that her songbird counterpart would need more time than than the Slayer had to spend in this world to accomplish any of them without the steady lubrication of alcohol.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rotier's Restaurant is really super delicious and I totally recommend the cheeseburgers on French bread. The fries with the gravy and cheese is poutine and really the Canadians do it best but it's worth a go here, too.
> 
> Many thanks to my husband, the most competent man I know, who told me some of what he was investing in during the early part of 2001. Gimme all the sexy stock options, baby.
> 
> Reimagined dialogue inspired by Season 5 Episode 14 "Crush," and Season 3 Episode 14 "Bad Girls."
> 
> Dialogue from Season 5 Episode 20 "Spiral"
> 
> I have the perfect tune in my head for "Dusted" but since I can't sing, can barely read music, and certainly can't write it, you're all out of luck. As Buffy Anne would say, I might can hum it for you but whistling is probably safer. So if you'd like me to call you and whistle the tune to you, drop your number. Otherwise, you can use your imagination ;)


	13. Chapter 13

To “cut a rug” Nashville style meant to join in with pretty much every line dance that had popped up around Riverfront Park while the growing throng of fans waited for their favorite artists to perform.  While Buffy the Vampire Slayer had two left feet in this department, Buffy Anne Summers was in her element, winding through “Any Man of Mine,” “Copperhead Road,” the “Cowgirl Twist,” and “Boot Scootin’ Boogie.”  

 

“Aww, bless your heart.” Buffy Anne chuckled at the Slayer sitting out another reel.  “I know you got your own kinda two-step but this is my dance. I won’t let you fall.”

 

Will watched her from the sidelines, chain-smoking and taking in her every toe-heel-toe-kick with fond amusement.

 

“Enjoying yourself, love?” he asked, when she shuffled his way with a lasso-wave of her wrist and a big smile.  

 

“You’d find out how much if you’d come join me,” she called, trying to reach for him.

 

He held his hands up and took a step back.  “Never gonna happen. Watching you’s all the workout I need.”

 

“C’mon, baby.” Buffy Anne laughed.  “You know you wanna dance.”

 

_Well, hiya again ghosts of Sunnydale past_ , shivered the Slayer.  But she could feel how Buffy Anne loved putting on a show for Will, loved that among the fifty or so cowgirls, his eyes could only follow her.  This is the dance they’d been doing for far too long, the Slayer realized. _And the thing about the dance is, you never get to stop_.  Until one of them made some kind of move, this is the perpetual motion they’d be trapped in - straddling an uneasy shuffle between business and pleasure.

 

Something called the “Watermelon Crawl” began next and Will stubbed out his last cigarette while meeting her eyes and giving her a nod.  When she sashayed her way near him again, she tilted her head, asking, “What’s the what?”

 

“Hate to tell your achy breaky heart, pet, but we need to scatter.  Cordy will have your wardrobe and makeup on standby and hell knows we can’t keep Rupes on the ropes for too long.”

 

Buffy Anne let her last partner (a sweet-faced grandpa with a mustache and a twinkle in his eye) give her a kiss on the hand in farewell and she hurried to Will’s side where he again tucked her hand in his.  Her eyes flew up to his face.

 

“You always make me wonder what a dirty ole redneck town like this is doin’ in a sweet London boy like you.”

 

His eyes dipped to hers.  “Whoever said I was sweet?”

 

“Me.  You foolin’ on me?”

 

He grunted out a laugh.  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

And there it was - the look.  Thirst of Spike, meet quench of Buffy.

 

She cleared her throat, taking on the jokey tone of a melodramatic radio announcer:  “But behind that steely stare, to the rest of the world…”

 

“Sod the rest of the world.”  He gave her Spike’s born-yesterday look complete with smirk.

 

“But you’ll still sing with me, right?”

 

He tensed.  “Said I would, didn’t I?  Won’t leave you hangin’.” He glanced at her once more.  “Not ever again.”

 

***

 

Wearing her suede wedge heels with frayed cut-off denim shorts and a lacy white bustier, Cordelia stopped her pacing next to the awaiting stage amid a horde of roadies and CMA reps and quickly latched on to Buffy’s elbow to pull her toward a trailer.

 

“You are the queen of cuttin’ it close,” Cordy scolded.  “Get a hobby, would ya? Take up target practice or dirt bike racing, even ride a damn mechanical bull for kicks.  But stop giving me heart attacks over the thrill of waiting until the last minute!”

 

“My fault,” Will piped up from a few feet behind the women.  “Wasn’t watchin’ the time.”

 

“I heard the sound check was a blast and three quarters.  You’ve gone from a solo act to a duet in a heartbeat.” Cordelia flashed Will a look from over her shoulder.  “If you plan on going on stage tonight, you’re gonna need base.”

 

“Rot.”

 

“Really not,” Cordy replied, wrinkling her nose.  “You’re gonna look like a corpse up there otherwise.”

 

He made a sound of disgust.  “Fucking hell. Fine.”

 

Cordy leaned in to Buffy’s ear.  “How you ever got him to say yes to performing with you - never mind come back to you at all - must be one of the greatest powers of damn persuasion I’ve ever seen.  What’d you do, grovel?”

 

Buffy shrugged.  “I said ‘please.’”

 

“Yep.” Cordy sighed and shook her head.  “That’d do it. Smitten bastard.”

 

Buffy’s breath caught in her throat.  “Smitten?” she squeaked.

 

“Oh, honey.” Cordelia gave her a pitying look.  “Where’ve you been? Even drowning at the bottom of a little brown jug, surely it’s obvious to you that the guy’s holding a torch for you bigger than the Statue of Liberty’s.  No?” Her eyes widened dramatically. “Wow. Well, allow me to introduce you to the new world, Buffy Anne Summers.” She leaned over to whisper in Buffy’s ear: “Your songwriting and business partner has a serious case of the hots for you.”

 

They stopped outside of one of the trailers and Cordy pressed her palm into Will’s chest.  “Ladies first. It’s too hot to breathe in there anyway. Chill out and have a smoke or ten, I’ll be right with you.”

 

Buffy followed Cordy inside the stifling and narrow trailer that had been set up with bays of mirrors and makeup stations on one wall, with various items of clothing hanging from the racks on the other.  The onslaught of so many white lights against the glare of the mirrors made Buffy’s eyes water.

 

Or maybe she was thinking of Will.  Cordy’s words kept repeating in her head:  _smitten bastard…a serious case of the hots for you_.  The Slayer could feel the young singer both scrabbling for purchase to these words and in the same breath, trying to push them away.  _Ah, conflict thy name is Buffy._ Probably in every reality.

 

“Sit,” Cordy ordered.  “Stay.” And she proceeded to put her talented hands to work.

 

When she finished, the Slayer saw a much more familiar girl in the mirror and she smiled at the result.  Cordy had given her makeup that would stand out on stage, but at the same time, it looked completely natural.  Her wavy hair had a soft bounce to it, not breaking variance laws with any sprayed and teased-up height but appearing healthy and lustrous.

 

The outfit she had put together seemed much more appropriate as well:  a loose-fitting beige mini-dress in soft microsuede with black trim that hugged her left shoulder but kept her right bare and exposed; some Native-American-style beaded earrings and, of course, the infamous Slayer boots.

 

“Ideally, you should be in leather but I don’t want you to die up there,” Cordy said, meeting her eyes in the mirror.  “What do you think?”

 

“Cordy, it’s perfect.”

 

“Yeah, you won’t sweat to death, it will be easy for you to play, and you’ve got the semi-girl-next-door vibe goin’ on.  A little bit of sugar, a little bit of spice.” She smiled. “Just like the Slayer should be. Okay, get to the stage and send your boy in on your way out.”

 

“My boy,” Buffy murmured.  “I don’t know about that.”

 

“He’s always been yours, Buffy,” Cordy told her seriously.  “It’s just a matter of how you want him.”

 

Buffy left the trailer and touched Will’s shoulder as she passed.  Now that she knew what to look for, she saw how his gaze smoldered at her as his eyes took her in.

 

“You clean up well, Slayer,” he said hoarsely, stubbing out his cigarette.

 

“Thanks. You’re up.”

 

“Balls.”  He sighed and went in to the trailer as though heading to the gallows.

 

***

 

Through the haze of the crowds milling around the stage, Buffy saw her Watcher’s doppelgänger craning his neck and then rushing toward her.

 

“Buffy,” he panted, smiling.  “You look beautiful, my dear.”

 

“Thanks.  Hey, did anyone leave a message for me?” Buffy Anne jumped forward to ask.  

 

“Why, no.” He frowned.  “Were you expecting a phone call?”

 

“Not really.”  _Only one of any of the girls who could’ve gotten in to Fan Fair and see me perform for free, that’s all._

 

“I’m thinkin’ maybe I should get my own phone again.  And I need another camcorder.”

 

“I’ll make sure you have both delivered to you room by tomorrow morning,” he promised with a nod then glanced around with a shred of optimism. “William’s left, I take it?”

 

She couldn’t help but glare.  “No, he’s getting stage makeup on.”

 

Giles frowned.  “I see. Buffy, we really need to have a serious conversation.  Your fans expect the Slayer. That’s the image they want of the one warrior girl in all the world standing alone against the forces of darkness.  Not one girl and her accompanist.”

 

“Ever hear the song, ‘One is the loneliest number?’  I might can hum it for ya. I never said the Slayer had to be swingin’ her scythe solo forever.  That’s your damage and I’m not sure it’s best for the Slayer. Or for me.”

 

“Buffy, it’s an important statement on female empowerment that speaks volumes:  how your strength comes from within you. You’re the Chosen One. You don’t need a man to define or complete you, you’re a singular force of nature that stands tall and independent.”

 

“That sounds great and all but after too long on my lonesome, it feels more like the last stanza of ‘The Farmer in the Dell,’” the singer told him wryly.  When Giles continued to looked stumped, she cleared her throat and sang, “‘The cheese stands alone, the cheese stands alone, hi ho the derry oh, the - ’”

 

“Ah, I see,” he replied tightly.  “Yes, I suppose you’ve made your point.”

 

“I don’t think I have.  See, I’m thinkin’ that the bigger strength of any warrior is admitting when you can’t do it alone - or that you just plain don’t want to. Part of being a chosen one has got to be being able to choose the fighters you want to fight alongside you, dontcha think?”

 

_Damn girl,_ the Slayer responded in appreciation.  

 

Giles took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes tiredly.  “You’re changing your image mid-play. It’s a gamble and I can’t recommend it.”

 

“Check. No rec - noted,” she answered.  “Don’t worry, I won’t blame you. This is all on me.”

 

With a worried look, Giles handed her guitar to her and pulled one of the CMA roadies aside with instructions for lighting Buffy’s performance.

 

_And_ that _is the part that sucks about being the Slayer.  It is all on you. All the time. Never stops. 24-7-365 and don’t forget leap year._

 

_Is that what this is for you, Slayer?  Your leap year here to me?_

 

_You’re funny.  Still, don’t short what you’re taking on.  It’s the loneliest damn gig there is._

 

_I felt it.  But I don’t think it has to be anymore._

 

The Slayer blinked.  _You mean Will?_

 

_I mean I’ll see.  Is that - that’s a good thing, right?_

 

The Slayer smiled. _I think that could be a great thing._

 

_Me, too.  Just - hang tight with me, okay?_

 

_I wouldn’t think of doing anything different._

 

“Well, upon my soul and bless my heart to boot,” the Slayer mused with sudden cheerfulness.  “I might be leaping outta here sooner than expected.” She’d already learned from Coach that she couldn’t let her feelings about her Spike cloud any of the other Buffys, so why put up roadblocks here now?  Buffy Anne wanted him, she should have him. Then goodnight Nashville.

 

Then he arrived.

 

Will didn’t look that different - he was, after all, him.  But Buffy Anne felt weak in the knees at the stark effect of switching out his triple black uniform to a faded grey Johnny Cash t-shirt with frayed, cut-off short sleeves, paired with stylishly ruined blue jeans.  Cordy hadn’t tamed his curls either but held them gelled in all their riotous glory, the brown roots looking even more glossy and the blonde tips glowing with even more shine.

 

“Damn,” both Buffys exclaimed, eyes round.

 

He fidgeted uncomfortably like he wanted to jump out of his skin.  “I look like a ponce.”

 

“Not even,” they breathed.  Then Buffy Anne blinked. “Hey, that’s your own old shirt from Helmont.  How’d Cordy get that?”

 

“By rifling through all my soddin’ luggage, that’s how.  Bloody violation, is what it is,” he groused. “Evil bitch wardrobe mistress of death.”

 

“Sooo worth it,” the singer sighed, her eyes roving all over him.  

 

Oblivious to her gaze, he yanked on the frayed edges of the shirt sleeves that exposed his sculpted and generous biceps.  The vintage tee was so broken in that it fit him more like a fitted tank top, which was AOK with both Buffys.

 

“Please,” he scoffed.  “Gonna be practically naked up there.”

 

“Well, that’d sure be a quick way to get a big audience,” Buffy Anne replied.  “Relax, would ya? You’re fine. Like very fine. Those arms you wanna cover up?  Those are…good arms to have.”

 

He finally met her eyes.  “Stop teasing.”

 

Her mouth dropped open in surprise.  “Will, I’m so not. You’re…” She rolled her eyes nervously. “Hell, you know you’re gorgeous.”

 

“It’s like your song,” he said softly.  “You know, the one that didn’t make the cut.  How it’s hard to take to heart what you don’t hear.”

 

“You got that right.” 

 

“Reckon I get it now like I didn’t before.”  He swallowed hard. “So thank you.”

 

“Next up…” a voice echoed from the loudspeakers near the stage.  “Please welcome Buffy Anne Summers, our own Nashville Slayer.”

 

Oh, she wanted to grab his hand then - the way he had been so protectively grabbing hers all day.  He’d always fended for her like that. She imagined because he intended to safeguard his investment.  He knew talent when he had seen it all the way back in the summer before sophomore year, asking her to write with him and be the singer since he vowed to never do it himself. The memory fluttering over the Slayer’s consciousness presented itself exactly how Will had described it: she would sing, they would write, he would invest.  And that had been their start: her curtsy, his bow. A mutually beneficial business arrangement. Cha-cha-cha.

 

“Let’s get this over with,” Will muttered next to her and ushered her out on stage.

 

“Hey y’all!” Buffy Anne greeted the crowd with a wave.  “This here is Will. And this is ‘Dusted.’”

 

***

 

“We got the lighters!” Buffy Anne grinned once they got back off-stage and turned in their equipment.  “I love gettin’ the lighters. It means you roped ‘em in but good.”

 

“You’re easily pleased,” he chuckled with a grin, immediately lighting up a cigarette and inhaling with relish.  “But reckon not wrong. So what’s next? You have to play nice with all the performers at all the after parties now?”

 

She shrugged.  “I’m supposed to.”

 

“What do you want to do, Buffy?”

 

“You know?” She squinted at him.  “You’re the only one who ever asks me that.”

 

And wow, the gnarled brambles of her thoughts and feelings she plunged the Slayer into then.  Welcome to the jungle.

 

How this with Will could be real.  How this wasn’t some “We Have Been Cruelly Cursed by the Fates, Alas!” tragic love story of angst and separation and unfulfillment, never to be resolved or redeemed.   This could be “hi, honey I’m home,” with a side of Friday night family dinners and a dollop of Saturday night drive in movies. It could be sharing the load instead of being left holding the bag, choice instead of duty - not to mention piping hot instead of lukewarm.  Of course it would last forever because, well, God knew she would endure given the chance and if he wouldn’t leave, what else would that mean? If neither one gave up on the other, forever would be the natural conclusion. So forever.

 

Too bad heartbreak, fear, and endless torment made more sense.  Because that’s what being Buffy Summers meant. In every reality.

 

_And nothin’ you’re showin’ me of yourself is provin’ any different, Slayer.  Still…_

 

“So?”

 

Buffy Anne licked her lips.  “I’m hungry.”

 

At that he completely relaxed and laughed.  “Of course you are. Let me wash this muck off and then what, Prince’s?”

 

“Oh, yeah.”

 

The Buffys took him in appreciatively as they watched him sidle away but the intrusion of the voice behind her blew her clean out of her reverie.

 

“Very well done,” Giles rapped out.  “Surprisingly so.”

 

She turned to face him.  “Not surprisingly. He’s crazy talented.  Always has been.”

 

Giles opened his mouth as though to protest and then seemed to change his tune.  “Your performance at the Mall is at noon tomorrow. May we speak in the morning beforehand?  Perhaps in the hired car on the way to the soundcheck?”

 

“Sure,” she agreed, but it sounded more like giving in.  This is how Giles had steered her off her own track, the Slayer realized.  Because Buffy Anne loved him - not like a manager but like the father she’d lost.  And while part of her squirmed to get out from under his thumb, the bigger and more desperate part couldn’t bear to lose it:  his concern, his control, his attention. It was another relationship that had gotten all twisted thanks to the influx of fame.

 

“Excellent!” His pleased as punch response soothed her nerves like almost nothing else.  If she could keep Giles happy and Will by her side, she’d have the perfect recipe for Sorted Buffy.  Now how to balance all that on the tightrope she had to walk.

 

“You’ll be attending the festivities tonight?  With Will as your escort or should I arrange for one of the security guards?”

 

“Yeah, he’ll look out for me, no worries,” the girl replied.  That wasn’t a lie at least.

 

“Don’t be afraid to use the evening to network,” Giles advised as he patted her shoulder.  “See you in the morning.”

 

***

 

“It was totally flat.”

 

“You’re completely off your bird. You carried it fine.”

 

“Well, it sure wasn’t perfect.”

 

“What is, pet, when you get right down to it?”

 

“For as many times as I sing the darn thing, it should be.”

 

“You’re not a rutting machine.  What, you want me to run your vocals through the Auto Tune box and Britney the life out of you?”

 

“Don’t even.”

 

“What’s real ain’t perfect. Ever. Your life's gonna get a lot less confusing when you figure that out.”

 

Buffy Anne heaved a huge sigh and leaned back in her plastic seat at the restaurant she and Will had been occupying for the past hour. After maneuvering them out of crazy traffic around all the Fan Fair landmarks, he drove them to a dilapidated strip mall in a section of the town called East Nashville that made Lower Broadway look like Park Avenue. No one in Prince’s Hot Chicken recognized her, allowing her to enjoy her potato salad and clean off her cayenne-stained hands from the spicy fried bird in peace.

 

Buffy Anne gazed at Will.  “How’d you get so smart?”

 

He snorted.  “Years of failure.”

 

“First Attempt In Learnin’,” she reminded him with a cheeky grin.  “Courtesy of Ms. Calendar’s class, remember?”

 

“Be that as it may, sometimes you gotta pull up stakes completely.  Reinvent yourself. Funny thing is, I’m more me here than I ever was in England. Or was.” He rolled his eyes.  “Tossers are gonna gentrify me right out of town.”

 

“I lied to Giles,” Buffy Anne admitted.  “He thinks I’m ‘networking.’” She held up her fingers in air quotes.

 

“He’ll get over it.”  Will leaned across the table to her.  “Buffy, I don’t think he can manage you and love you at the same time.  It’s tearing him apart. You as well.”

 

“But if he’s not my manager, he won’t be in my life.”  Her heart began to pound in fear.

 

Will’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s really what you think?”

 

“I’m the reason he ever came out of retirement.  He gave up his teaching job for me.”

 

“And thanks to you, he’ll be kept in Macallan and tweed for the rest of his days.  He can’t separate himself, love. He’s too invested.”

 

“So who’s gonna manage me?”

 

“You are.”

 

The Buffys gulped.

 

“Your label, your music, your own studio.  It’s what we always talked about and it’s time.  You’re ready.”

 

“I-I don’t know…”

 

“Buffy, you won’t be alone.  I’m not going anywhere. Now that I know your aim’s for shit, I’ll even be prepared the next time you decide to throw a camera at my head.”  He grinned wryly. “We’ll split the load like we planned.”

 

“This is about the time that a drink sounds mighty good right now,” Buffy Anne blurted out.

 

“I get it,” he whispered, his kind blue eyes meeting hers.  “Better than you know. When you drink, what you’re doing is tryna drown the fear.  I say use it. Use the fear to fuel your leap - not booze.”

 

The Slayer remembered Coach’s words through Dawnie:  _It’s okay if you’re scared because it means you’re about to do something really brave._

 

“I gotta think about this,” she mumbled.

 

“I know you do.”  He wiped his hands on his paper napkin and stood up.  “Let’s get you started on that.”

 

***

 

The Buffys had apparently fallen asleep in Will’s car on the way back to the hotel because she vaguely felt strong arms carrying her and depositing her on down-filled softness. She felt her boots being slipped off her feet.

 

His husky voice tickled her ear.  “You should wash your face.”

 

“Nuh-uh,” she grunted, snuggling deeper into the pillow.  “Too tired.”

 

“Right then.  Get some sleep.”  He began to move away from her and Buffy Anne reached out to catch his hand just in time.

 

“Don’t go.  You can watch TV in here.  Just…stay.”

 

And at the sound of his soft inhale of strangled breath, the Slayer nearly bolted fully awake inside of Buffy Anne’s brain because… oh, she’d heard that sound before.  From Spike.

 

If she really thought about it, she could hear him make that sound back in Sunnydale right this very minute.  He slept next to her tonight. She didn’t know how she knew it, but she could feel it with such certainty, it was as though it had been carved into her bones.  Well, shoot. If her body had a sleeping partner, no reason Buffy Anne’s shouldn’t.

 

Without letting go of her hand, she heard a soft rustling of boots being kicked off against carpet and then the weight of him pressing into the mattress next to her as he sat up in bed against the headboard.  She rolled onto her side so that her face met his hip and his hand let go of hers to gently caress her hair.

 

Together, the Buffys felt tears pool at the corners of their eyes:  Buffy Anne in relief and the Slayer because…well, she didn’t really know exactly but it seemed to have something to do with the fact that though the fingers stroking her head were familiar, they weren’t for her.

  
_Spike hands! Hands of Spike!  On me. Why do I want that?_  Then before she drifted off to sleep she realized that of all the people who would understand coming back to life, it would be him.  If she chose to come home, what a comfort he could be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue quotes from S5 E7 "Fool For Love," S6 E5 "Life Serial."


	14. Chapter 14

_Oh, my frickin’ God we slept together!_

 

Buffy Anne woke up panicking the next morning with her heart pounding and the sleeping Slayer sprung to consciousness.  How many times had this happened in the girl’s world, going to bed plowed and waking up with a stranger? The thought made her stomach ache.

 

But no.  Realization brought the relief that she had not gone to bed drunk and this was not a stranger.  This was Will who’d fallen asleep next to her. Buffy (she looked down at herself under the sheet) was still in her dress minus the strapless bra she vaguely remembered tossing on the floor during the night.  And while Will (she peeked under his side of the covers) had taken off his jeans and his shirt ( _yum_ ), he still had on his boxers and his _(giggle_ ) socks.  He had one hand wrapped around his pillow as he slept on his side facing her, with his arm slung lazily around her.  He looked studious and concerned in his sleep and Buffy Anne snuggled a little closer. God, he really was a beautiful man, not so much born and grown as chiseled - almost too good to be true and the thought made her smile.  _You're just too good to be true, I can't take my eyes off of you, you’d be like heaven to touch, I wanna hold you so much…_ Ahh, so this was what Frankie had been singing about. 

 

She’d asked Will to stay and he’d stayed.  Good boy. He’d invested her money, dragged himself on stage for her, and allowed himself to be both unceremoniously fired and unpredictably rehired without hesitation while never wavering in being her partner.  _And those are only the things I know about,_ the Slayer told her other self.  _What’s he gonna do for his next trick?_

 

“We’ve never even kissed,” Buffy Anne murmured.  “That hand holding stuff, he’s always done that. It all started back when we first met and were walking in traffic. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. I almost got hit by a car and he pulled me back just in time.  Figured he didn’t trust me to do it on my own after that. And with me gone, there goes his meal ticket.”

 

_Come on, kiddo.  We both know that’s not why he did it._

 

“I’ve always known he was cute.  I mean, duh. But… there’s always been this divider between us, this invisible line. In a lot of ways we know each other better than anybody.  In other ways, I don’t know him at all. I’ve even fallen asleep next to him like this before when we’d be up late working. He always wakes up first, though, and then it’s back to business.  Which honestly? Suited me fine.” Buffy Anne frowned. “Until all of a sudden it didn’t. It’s like one day I just _saw_ him - the real him.  And now I can’t go back to _not_ seeing him.”

 

The Slayer had a little trouble swallowing then.

 

“This is nice, though, right?” Buffy Anne continued.  “Sleeping next to someone who cares about you ? That you care about?  Not even doing anything, just being with them.”

 

Through the singer’s eyes, the Slayer tried to see Buffy Anne’s Will, but she could only see her Spike and think about how this is what he would look like in bed.  They knew so many things about each other and yet were still strangers. She’d gotten her jollies more from jostling him awake than ever enjoying the beauty of his features while he slept. 

 

_Yeah,_ the Slayer mused.  _It is nice._

 

Nervousness suddenly flared in Buffy Anne and she began to fidget.  

 

“Will,” she hissed.

 

No response.

 

“Will.”  Louder this time.  She gave the bed a little wiggle.

 

Nothing.

 

“Sweet Jesus, the man sleeps like death,” she muttered.  “Screw it. I’m going back to sleep. You try. See if he’s hungry yet.”

 

The Slayer smiled wryly.  She and her host body were becoming buddies, it appeared.

 

“Hey Will,” Buffy tried in her normal voice.  “Will?”

 

Silence.

 

“Yo Spike,” she shot out jokingly.

 

“Hmm?”

 

Her breathing stopped. She could feel her eyes widen in shock.

 

“Spike?” she whispered warily.

 

“Mmm?”  The grunt sounded a little more annoyed.

 

Her heart started thundering madly.

 

“Oh my God, Spike?  Is that really you?”

 

“‘Course it is…” he mumbled in sleep.  “Slayer.”

 

Buffy put a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming.  How? What? How? Then she thought of Whistler saying, _you’re being a total boss about this and we won’t forget it._ Was this her reward?  How could _Spike_ ever be a reward?

 

“Spike.  Oh Spike.  I-I can’t believe it’s really you!  Um, is Dawnie okay?”

 

“Mhm.  Good. Sad.  Misses you.”

 

Tears came to Buffy’s eyes.  “I-I miss her, too. Tell her I miss her.  Tell her I love her.”

 

“M’kay.  She knows.”

 

“D-do you see her a lot?”

 

“Ev’ry day,” he muttered, sounding resentful.  “Promised.”

 

“Yeah.” Buffy sniffled.  “Yeah, you did promise. Thank you. For taking care of her.”

 

“Don’ gotta thank me.  Love her. Love you.”

 

Tears fell on her cheeks.  “I know.”

 

“Miss you, Slayer.”

 

“Me, too,” she whispered.  God, right at this moment, she really did miss the stupid, annoying vampire.

 

“Comin’ back?”  Even in sleep, he sounded so heartbreakingly hopeful.

 

“I…” Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.  “I don’t know.”

 

He exhaled heavily.  “Fair ‘nuff.” He sounded resigned.  “I’ll be here.”

 

“Here.”  Buffy thought about what that might mean.  “With me? You’re with me now?”

 

“‘Course.”  He sounded grumpy again.  “Ev’ry night. Ev’ry night I dream ‘bout you.  See it all again... do somethin’ different. Faster, more clever…dozens o’ times, lotsa ways …ev'ry night I save you.”

 

“Spike…” Buffy was full on sobbing now and trying not to let it affect her voice.  “It’s not your fault, okay? I know you did the best you could. I know it.”

 

“Not ‘nuff.”

 

“It was plenty, it was amazing, all the times you helped me fight, helped me with Dawn, with Mom.  It’s more than…” _More than any vamp’s ever done for me._ No.  She couldn’t say that.  It wasn’t even the whole truth.  “…more than anyone’s ever done for me.  Any man.”

 

“…you make me feel like a man and that’s more than anyone’s ever done…more than I deserve.”

 

“No Spike, God.  I’m sorry. If I don’t come back to tell you, I’m sorry. For… everything.”

 

“Nothin’ be sorry for, Slayer.  S’alright.” All the warmth in his voice sounded like he’d be soothing a fussy child or stroking a beloved pet.  Or comforting a scared little sister.

Here she was the one who was making him worry over her and Dawn and he was trying to make _her_ feel better.  

 

“I really do miss you,” she told him honestly.

 

“Mmm.”  He snored for a moment.  “Good.”

 

That made her laugh through her tears.

 

“Come back then.”

 

Her breath caught.  “I…”

 

“Gotta get up. Get the Bit to school.”

 

That surprised her.  “You get Dawn ready for school?  Wait. School.” Dawn would be getting out of school in early June. Was it June there or still May?  Or… her stomach dropped. Had she been gone so long they were in a new school year?

 

“Whoa, Spike.” She started to panic.  “What’s the date there? How long have I been gone?”

 

“Don’ worry, Slayer.  Ev’rythin’ be alright.  Jus’ get well. Come back to me.”

 

Well, that sure hammered the last nail of guilt into the old coffin of regrets.  Come back to him.  

 

Of course he knew what that would look like.  Nothing would change. Her coming back to him would mean she’d continue to punch him in the nose and use his muscle when it suited her and roll her eyes at him so often she could make it into an Olympic event.  Taunt him about his chip and remind him how he was nothing more than the Undead Soulless Evil Killer. And he’d take it. Because it meant that she’d be in his world at all.

 

“Spike…"

 

“Ta ra Slayer,” he muttered.  “See you tomorrow.”

 

“Spike?  _Spike_?”

 

The body next to her snored loudly in sleep.  Her moment with Spike was over. The Slayer rolled back onto her pillow and willed the tears to stop.

 

_What the hell was that, Slayer?  You got a Will in your life and you call him Spike? How did he do that just then?  Why does he think you won’t come back to him? What is going on with you?!_

 

“I can’t right now, okay?” the Slayer choked.  “Please?”

 

_Oh man, you are as hot a mess as me - if not hotter.  Don’t any slayers ever get a break?_

 

“Slayers, maybe somewhere.  Buffys I’m thinking not so much.”

 

_Well, shit.  Let’s go take a shower.  You need a good old Southern breakfast, my treat._

 

“Your treat.”  The Slayer chuckled darkly as she peeled Will’s arm from around her and eased out of the bed.  “You are hysterical.”

 

***

 

“Amazing grace/how sweet the sound/that saved a wretch like me!”

 

When trained singers sang in the shower, they brought a whole new level to the experience and Buffy Anne feeling settled, sober, and well-rested brought her to a whole new level of happy.  The Slayer couldn’t be happier for her, even as she sat back still stunned that her Spike had appeared to communicate with her. She felt in no shape to take lead. Luckily, Buffy Anne seemed more than willing to run point for them as well as throwing out some genuinely concerned vibes toward the Slayer.

 

Will had already left her bed when she emerged with her hair turbaned and her body wrapped in the fluffy hotel robe.  She knocked on the half open adjoining door to his room.

 

“Hey, you wanna order some room service?  What about waffles?”

 

He pulled the door open abruptly, his curls still wet and his black on black on black ensemble back in play.  Sunglasses in one hand and keys in the other, he looked ready to bolt.

 

“I’d love to.  Can’t though. What time you on today?”

 

“Noon.  I’m doing ‘Love you down from here,’ though, so I’ll be okay.”

 

He eyed her.  “Yeah? Look, if I can’t make it onstage in time, I’ll be in the crowd and come get you after, right?”

 

Her cheeks warmed.  “Okay. Where you off to anyhow?”

 

“Um.”  He fidgeted, looking guilty. “Work, actually.”

 

“Work?” she repeated in surprise.  “I’m not enough of a job for ya?”

 

“Heh, what do they say?  Toughest job you’ll ever love?  Military won’t ever hold a candle to you, pet, but as it is, it’s one of my last appointments from…you know… before.”

 

“Before…” She looked at him blankly.

 

Now he looked embarrassed.  “You fired me, Buffy. I still had to eat.  Took whatever I could get. Gave notice as much as I could but I couldn’t let down those I’d promised myself to.”

 

“Oh.”  Her voice sounded very small.  “Oh, Will. Jeez, I’m sorry. I can’t believe I did that to you!  Why didn’t you say something?”

 

“I’m not helpless,” he barked, then glanced at her apologetically.  “‘Sides, you were goin’ through your own trials. Me and work have been long acquainted.  Best mates. I should be done by the time you’re on.” He smiled at her. “But I’ll cancel it all if you need me.”

 

“No, it’s okay,” she told him truthfully.  “I feel good about this. Really good. I woke up feeling like a whole new person.”

 

“A sober person.”

 

“Yeah.”  She looked down.  “Guess I went on a helluva bender.”

 

“No shit.”  His eyes were twinkling at her.  “Hold on to this feeling, what you get from not drinking. If you feel yourself slip, this is what you need to remember, how good it feels to be free.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Buffy Anne locked eyes with his and they both stood there sort of lost in each other.

 

Abruptly, Will jerked toward her and gave her a smacking kiss somewhere in the range of her forehead and the towel along her hairline.  “Bye.” And without another word, he turned away from her and left.

 

_Sheesh, awkward much?_ the Slayer noted.  _Don’t worry, I’m sure he…hey, everything okay over there?_

 

Buffy Anne had broken into a delirious smile.  “Slayer, he kissed me! He really, really kissed me!”

 

Hardly a kiss to write home about, the Slayer thought, but heck, if Buffy Anne wanted to celebrate it, they could pop open the equivalent of non-alcoholic champagne and raise a hearty glass.

 

_He sure did_.  _I’m really glad for you._

 

Buffy Anne skipped to the hotel phone and dialed room service.  “Now I’m really hungry.”

 

***

 

The Slayer watched Buffy Anne change into a t-shirt and sweat shorts, then partake in a massive Southern breakfast spread:  scrambled eggs with Tabasco on the side, creamy grits with butter and cheese, buttermilk biscuits with sausage gravy, hash browns with white peppery gravy, fried apples, and a side plate of fried chicken and waffles.

 

“Good, right?” the singer asked, popping the last piece of waffle in her mouth.

 

_The food here is crazy.  How do you all not weigh a gazillionty pounds?_

 

Before Buffy Anne could answer, a knock came on the door and she jumped up to answer it.

 

“Good morning, Buffy,” Giles smiled nervously and handed her two cardboard boxes.  “Your phone and camera as requested. I took the liberty of adding all of your numbers you transferred to my address book back to yours.”

 

“Sweet.” Buffy Anne grinned. “Thanks, Giles.”  She took the boxes from him and set them on her bed, while he made a beeline for the desk.

 

“I have the contract information,” he said and took a stack of papers out of a manila folder that he had tucked under his arm.  “Please sit.”

 

Numbly, Buffy Anne shuffled over, looking at the papers spread out on the desk as though they might bite her.

 

_You’re okay,_ the Slayer soothed, jumping forward when she felt the girl’s fear.  _I got you._

 

“As you know, _Must Be Tuesday_ was your trial run.  One limited press album, one regional tour, plus a test market for the corporate sponsorship.  If you don’t already know, allow me to congratulate you on surpassing all their estimates for success.”  He looked at her shyly. “I’m very proud of you, Buffy.”

 

“Thanks.”  The Slayer had to finally answer because Buffy Anne had gone completely still.

 

“What the label has offered is extremely generous:  North American and international tours beginning immediately, four albums, guaranteed continuation of the corporate sponsorship, and you retain all rights to your clothing line which is not included in the record contract.  There’s also chatter that a major instrument company may wish to partner with you to create a line of Slayer guitars, amplifiers, and accessories.” Giles paused, his face grave. “I don’t think I have to tell you that such a proposal is unprecedented for an entertainer of your young age and relative inexperience.  Many performers wait a lifetime and are never offered compensation at this level.”

 

“I know,” Buffy Anne whispered, feeling shaky.  But the Slayer eyed Giles shrewdly and smelled subterfuge in the air.  “What’s the catch, Giles?” she asked.

 

Giles gave her his most awkward and clumsy grin.  “Well, as a matter of fact…” He pulled out another group of papers stapled together at the top, another contract but much thinner.  “There’s this.”

 

He handed her the papers and the Buffys glared at the title:  “Morality Clause.”

 

“What?!” both of the Buffys screeched.

 

“Now before you lose your temper, this clause is only temporary.  It disappears after your successful completion of the tour and your next two albums.  It’s insurance, you see. Your behavior as of late, well…” Giles took off his glasses and, natch, began to clean them nervously.  “The label understands you’re young and to a certain extent the youthful exuberance of the Slayer image is good for business. You being carted away from a bar nearly unconscious by a security guard is not.”

 

“Forget it.”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“I’m not signing it.”

 

“Buffy, you haven’t even read the terms.”

 

She exhaled heavily.  “Fine.” Both of the Buffys folded their arms and stared at him.  “Let’s hear the terms of my so-called morality.”

 

“Yes, well, most of this is very standard.  Routine drug testing. No obvious imbibing in public, no photos of you seen drinking or smoking.  The label will approve all public appearances. Obviously you could not be seen in casinos or, erm, gentleman’s clubs.  Many nightclubs would be off limits as well. Finally, they prefer the image of the Slayer to be single. Unattached.”

 

“I can’t even _date_?” the Buffys cried.

 

“Of course the wording isn’t that restrictive but again, your image is paramount.  Any escorts would need to be presented as nothing more than good friends. No public displays of affection.  If you ever found yourself pursuing a serious relationship, your companion would likely be subject to a similar clause to protect the label’s investment in you.”

 

“And God forbid I ever broke up with somebody.”

 

“Yes.”  Giles frowned.  “That occurred to me as well.  Buffy, you’re not dating anyone at the moment, are you?”

 

“No but…”

 

“Good.”  He put his glasses on with a sigh of relief.  “I was a bit concerned that with William’s sudden reappearance you two were perhaps becoming more serious.”

 

“And what if we were?”  Buffy Anne challenged.

 

“Buffy.”  Giles gave her his best exasperated look.  “William is hardly an acceptable romantic option.  He’s your business partner. If you two became involved and the relationship didn’t work out -”

 

“He would still be my business partner,” Buffy Anne said evenly.  “That would never change.”

 

“I think you’re being very naive.”

 

“And I think you’re being a big jerk,” she snapped.  “You don’t like Will. You never have. Sure, you’ve always appreciated his talent. Any time you needed a fill-in musician at school, you always roped him in, no matter how crappy the gig was.  You even gave him a straight A in your class. But it’s like you don’t even see him as a person.”

 

“I do see him.  And I don’t trust what I see.  He has a past, Buffy, one he has always been dead set on concealing.”

 

“Maybe for good reason.  What if it was a life that hurt him or-or that he just plain wants to forget?  I kind of don’t really care because how sucky is it to judge somebody on something that’s dead?  Hell, I can’t change what I did a month ago or even last week.” The Slayer nudged Buffy Anne aside to provide some new wisdom she’d just acquired:  “You do what you can with what you have. And when you know better, you do better.”

 

_Oh snap, Slayer.  I love that._

 

_Yeah, me too._

 

“Yes, well, platitudes aside…”

 

“He’s a good man, Giles.  I can feel it. And you’ll never know unless you give him a chance.”

 

“I don’t need to give him a bloody chance!  He’s not my charge. You are,” Giles shot back savagely.  “To achieve success, certain sacrifices must be made. With the amount of money at stake here, this morality clause is nothing more than a technicality.”

 

“To you!  They’re not trying to control every aspect of your life including who’s mouth you stick your tongue into.  In the meantime, you want to send away the one person that’s been watching my back.”

 

“We’re all watching your back!”

 

She sniffed.  “Funny. When you hand the girl who’s drowning a bottle of schnapps, that’s not what it feels like.”

 

Giles rubbed his forehead.  “I only figured that if you didn’t get it from me, you would’ve found it from someone else, possibly hurting yourself in the process.  Now please. Let’s return to the contract. William will be a moot point because the label will assign you a financial advisor. Will can of course remain a friend - ”  

 

The Buffys put their hands up and stepped away from the desk.  “We are _not_ talking about this.”

 

“Yes, we bloody well are!” Giles yelled and both of the Buffys temporarily shut down.  The Slayer because she just had this exchange with Giles about Dawn before she leapt, and Buffy Anne because Giles had never raised his voice to her before.

 

“You have delayed a decision on even discussing this contract for the past two months.  The deadline has arrived. You must decide by Monday or this is null and void.”

 

“Then null and void it,” the singer said finally.  “I’m done. No more fame for me. I don't know how to live in this world, if these are the choices.  The price is too damn high.”

 

Giles looked in her eyes for a moment and then gathered up the papers.  “I’ll tell them you’re considering it.”

 

“No, Giles!”  She grabbed his arm.  “That is not what I said.  I said no, nein, nyet, and a big nuh-uh.  Not doing it. Not signing. Tell them to suck it.”

 

“This is not how negotiations happen, Buffy.  This is not how careers are made.”

 

“Well, maybe I don’t want a career anymore.”

 

“I know you don’t mean that.  Now I need to make a call.” He glanced at his watch.  “Please meet me in thirty minutes so that we can get to your soundcheck on time.”

 

As the door closed behind him, the singer let out a banshee wail of a frustrated scream that would’ve woken the dead had the room not been soundproofed.  Without even thinking, she stalked to the mini bar and yanked it open, finding it… empty.

 

“Son of a bitch!” she hollered and collapsed to the floor in a burning pile of rage.

 

_Hey, remember what Will said?  To hold on to how good it feels to be free?  You don’t need booze. You don’t. I promise._

 

“Slayer, if I say ‘no’ to this contract I am flushing big money right down the shitter.  My daddy would whoop my hide for being so damn stupid.” She gazed around the room helplessly.  “But if I say ‘yes,’ it’s gonna kill me. I can’t live that way.”

 

_I know._

 

“Will did kiss me, though. He never kissed me before.”  She rubbed her forehead absently. “That’s worth it, right?  But…but what if… what if he…changes his mind?”

 

_Hey, what has he shown you that would make you even ask that?_

 

“Nothin’, but love’s weird, Slayer.  Sexy love, that is. Changes people. Makes ‘em do the wacky.  And as much as I know him, I don’t. You know?”

 

_I know.  Boy, do I know._

 

“And people got this thing for leavin’ me.” Buffy Anne smiled sadly.  “What makes him any different?”

 

The Slayer’s throat tightened.  _I so get this.  You can’t even know how much.  The thing is, he_ is _different.  He just is._

 

“Is your Will different?”

 

_HA.  Oh yeah.  Way different._

 

“Do you love him?”

 

_No, I...I don’t know._

 

“I think I love Will.  I think I’ve loved him for a long time. That’s so crazy scary I can’t even.”  The singer paused. “Are _you_ scared?”

 

_Very very._

 

“Good,” she breathed out in relief.  “I don’t feel so silly then. Come on.  Gotta get ready for maybe one of the last performances of the Nashville Slayer.”

 

_Really?!_

 

“It could be the end of that world as we know it,” Buffy Anne hummed grimly.  “And I feel fine.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyric from "Can't Take My Eyes Off of You," by Frankie Valli and the 4 Seasons. Dialogue snippets from Season 4 Episode 9 "Something Blue," Season 6 Episode 3 "After Life," Season 5 Episode 22 "The Gift," Season 7 Episode 14 "First Date," Season 7 Episode 19 "Empty Places," Season 2 Episode 2 "Some Assembly Required." Lyric from "It's the End of the World," by R.E.M.


	15. Chapter 15

Giles didn’t ride with her to the soundcheck and performance, after all. When she arrived at his room, she found him speaking urgently to someone on the hotel phone and glancing at his laptop computer open on his desk. He pointed to his watch and opened his hands helplessly to her, then raised one hand as if to wish her farewell.

Good. Hopefully he was telling her record company the politically correct business version of sticking it where the sun wouldn’t shine. Buffy Anne and the Slayer eased into the Opry town car and rode in blissful silence.

***

Of all the songs the Nashville Slayer had performed, the Sunnydale Slayer liked the one she sang at the Bicentennial State Park stage that afternoon the best:

_I know love's put a hurtin' on you_   
_know your heart's been beat_   
_know how you always give your all_   
_but been left so incomplete_

_Well baby I can't change your past_   
_and I can't change your mind_   
_but if you let me in I swear_   
_we can work out fine_

  
_I'll never lie_   
_I'll never leave you_   
_I'll never make you stop believin'_   
_that you're any less than perfect for me_   
_any less than mine_   
_I'll always try_   
_I'll always stay_   
_until you make me go away_   
_then I'll love you down from here_   
_love you down from here until I die_

_You've never needed once to see me_   
_as someone fit to love_   
_the space I keep's just out of reach_   
_beneath while you're above_

_Well baby I can't change my place_   
_unless you change your mind_   
_to let me up to give you love_   
_The best you'll ever find!_

_I'll never lie_   
_I'll never leave you_   
_I'll never make you stop believin'_   
_that you're any less than perfect for me_   
_any less than mine_   
_I'll always try_   
_I'll always stay_   
_until you make me go away_   
_then I'll love you down from here_   
_love you down from here until I die_

_And if you cry_   
_thinkin' on the ones who left and never said goodbye_   
_I'll dry your eyes_   
_you can put your trust right in me_   
_I've been waitin' all this time!_

  
Such a simple and sweet promise, really, and yet no partner of Buffy’s had yet to accomplish either of those things - to never lie or leave. She loved that line, too, about not letting the person believe he was any less than perfect - for _her_. Totally not the same as trying and failing for some unattainable ideal of overall perfection. What had Will said? _Ain’t nothing perfect unless it’s heaven you’re after…What’s real ain’t perfect. Ever._ Maybe with that kind of attitude to guide her, she’d have an even better life story title: _Imperfect and Who Gives a Damn? I’m Real - the Buffy Summers Story_. None of the prophecies had said anything about the Slayer needing to be perfect. Why had she decided to take that on? She probably would’ve had a lot more energy for living if she hadn’t.

A makeshift cabana provided the only coverage Buffy Anne needed for Cordy to help her out of the eyelet sundress she’d been wearing on stage in favor of denim cut-offs and a sleeveless red and white blouse that reminded the Slayer of a picnic tablecloth. They’d barely stepped back out when Will approached them, looking concerned.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he apologized. All he was missing was a hat in his hands. “Got held up.”

Cordy placed her hand on Buffy’s shoulder. “Go. I’ll catch up with you at the hotel later to plan wardrobe for tomorrow. Have fun, kiddies.”

“It went fine,” Buffy Anne assured him.

“I know. I saw.” He grinned. “You’re, uh, different on stage these days. Reminds me of how it was when we were working on the demo. As though you really enjoy all of this.”

She shrugged. “I do sometimes.” She paused.

_Go on_ , the Slayer nudged her. _It’s okay. Tell him. It’s true, isn’t it?_

She cleared her throat. “I like it when I know you’re there.”

At that, Mr. Smug Competence looked like he might’ve swallowed a bug. Those simple words had completely disarmed him.

“I-I like being here,” he blurted, his blue eyes searching hers. “Was hell not to be.”

“But even before,” Buffy Anne plundered on. “You started not exactly enjoying yourself.”

“Because you were absolutely not enjoying yourself. And that killed me. I didn’t know how to fix it.”

Nervously, she pulled some of the strings dangling from her cut-off shorts but wouldn’t stop looking at him. “Not your job to fix me.”

“No, but I let you down. Said I’d stick with you and I buggered off.”

“Part of someone bein’ there for you is that you actually kinda let them. I’ve sorta sucked at that. But you’ll stay now, right?”

He looked at her so warmly then it was like a hug. So much…God, so much like Spike at the foot of the Slayer’s stairs. That look. In this girl’s body, the Slayer could appreciate it in a way she never had before. Because she could feel what Buffy Anne felt about it, allow herself to bask in how good it felt to be looked at that way. Like someone couldn’t live without her.

“‘Course I’ll stay. You’ll have to beat me away now.”

“Good. And I won’t.” Buffy Anne’s cheeks heated. “You, um, wanna get out of here and maybe catch some of the shows?”

“That’s uh, the other part of me getting held up. My shift ain’t exactly over yet. I could meet you later, or…” He fidgeted with his sunglasses he held. “You could tag along.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Is this the kinda gig a tagalong would be welcomed at?”

“It is if she’s you.” He grinned. “Honest, pet. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

She shrugged blithely. “I’m in your hands then.”

At that, he looked at her sharply as if to check if she understood the full impact of what she’d offered him and, boy, did the singer want to duck and posture and make it into some joke to take the edge off but the Slayer would not have it.

_I don’t know much but I know if you want this guy, looking away is not how you get him._

So instead, the Buffys smiled at him and without further adieu, he grabbed her hand.

“Just the way I like it,” he rumbled, and the fact that there wasn’t a Buffy-shaped puddle on the floor only meant that he’d managed to whisk her away quick.

  
***

  
“So, this is my new number, you don’t have to call Giles anymore and…yeah - I’d like to see you before y’all scatter again. Plus, I wanna show you what dress I had in mind. Okay, thanks girl. Bye!” She ended the call she’d left on voicemail, frowning. “Wonder what’s up.”

Will glanced at her from behind the wheel of the Mustang. “Who says something is?”

“Nic said she’d call me. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to wear as a bridesmaid and the wedding’s in like a month. She said to pick out a black cocktail but…”

“For you doin’ her the favor of standin’ up in her wedding, you sure are chasing her down a lot. She was keepin’ you in the dark on the bachelorette party as well, if I recall.”

“Yeah, but it worked out. They were all happy enough to see me, I guess. It was me who was the mess. I was so nervous.”

“With your best mates? If that’s true, ever think they might not be anymore? It happens, ‘specially since you haven’t been truly close since sophomore year.”

Buffy Anne leaned her head back. “I would just, for once, like to have one single thing in my life not get weed-wacked because of bein’ the Slayer.”

“The things that matter won’t,” he told her softly. “You said it, pet. Weed-wacked - meaning to cut down the shit that doesn’t belong and keeps you from being your best.”

She stared at him. “Do you always make this much sense and I’ve been too shitfaced to appreciate it?”

“Hmm, lemme give it some thought: yeah.” He flashed her a wry grin. “Although you haven’t always let me peek behind the curtain of your personal side. Not much opportunity to dazzle you with my insight there.”

“Then that’s my total and complete bad,” she replied in wonder. Shyly, her eyes darted back to her phone. “Can’t get Nic to call me about the dress, she sure as hell won’t be finding me a date through Tyler’s fraternity brothers like she promised, either. Wanna be my plus one and watch me not drink champagne all night?”

Through the corner of her eye, the Slayer saw how Will looked almost stricken. “Really?”

“Sure. I mean, you always loved rippin’ into my old crew. Think of it as revisiting your favorite pastime in a tux while chowing down on a free dinner.” She glanced at him. “You do have a tux somewhere, right?”

“I’ll manage.”

“Good. So it’s a date,” she chirped a little too excitedly.

“Do we do that?” he asked hoarsely.

The Slayer met his widened eyes. “Reckon we do now.”

With an abrupt brake, Will pulled the car into park and Buffy Anne realized where they were.

“Hey, you’re working back at Helmont?”

“It’s a summer program through Helmont. Let’s fly, pigeon.” He held out his hand again. “That was supposed to have been my lunch break.”

***

Buffy Anne took in the Moroccan-esque, triple-domed gold and bronze building with stained glass windows and ornate mahogany double doors that looked like the drawbridge to some medieval castle. The Helmont School of Music. She hadn’t been inside for over a year, not since graduation.

Through the black and white checkerboard tiled lobby, Will led them around a corner to one of the back classrooms and through the deserted hallways. She could hear the voices and laughter of kids much younger than college age.

“What - ?”

Will put a finger to his lips, dropped her hand so she could peek in from the doorway and strode into the room.

“Right, noise like that must mean you’re all studied up,” she heard him threaten with a clap of his hands.

“Noooo,” she heard a chorus of boys and girls complain.

“Then instead of runnin’ yer mouths, you should’ve let Dalton quiz you before I got back. Everyone thank Dalton for leavin’ his post at the computer lab to babysit your sorry lot.”

“Thank you, Dalton,” the kids chorused.

The whiteboard that substituted for a chalkboard was littered with Will’s handwriting defining musical terms, samples of musical notes, and a list of classical composer’s names.

“Yeah, pet, come on in and have a seat. Dalton, Buffy; Buffy, Dalton.” A wiry, bespectacled young man around her age and reminding her vaguely of the DJ Moby, nodded to her and scooted past her down the hall. Buffy slipped into a seat by the door.

Will stood in the middle of the room surrounded by six youngsters seated at desks - three boys and three girls - ranging somewhere in ages from 10 through 15. The kids barely noticed Buffy’s presence in favor of keeping their eyes on Will.

“So, who wants to tell me: the numbers at the beginning of a piece of music represent the…”

“Time signature!” they chorused.

“Okay, that was easy. Let’s see if you remember what it means. You got a piece in 4/4 time.” A freckle-faced, red-haired girl raised her hand first. “Vi…”

“The upper number tells you the number of beats per measure and the lower number tells you the value of each beat. So 4/4 says that you have four beats per measure and the quarter note gets the beat.”

“Got it in one.” He nodded and they bumped fists. “The lines in the treble staff are… Charlie?”

A darker-skinned boy with a red and white soccer uniform on stood up to answer. “ACEG?”

“Treble staff, I said.”

“Oooh!” An older teenage girl with raven black straight hair and fair skin shot her hand up. “Every Great Band Draws Fans - EGBDF.”

“Yes, Hildy. What did Charlie-boy give me?”

“Bass staff,” the kids answered together.

“The symbol used to denote the range of a particular staff is a…”

“Clef!”

“A dotted half note equals how many quarter notes?”

“Three!”

“Not bad at all. Reckon you deserve the reward of meeting a true musician then.”

“I thought you were a musician,” said the raven-haired girl.

“I got no albums, little bit. This lady plays, writes, performs, sings, and sells - a bloody lot of records. Set to go gold, she is.” He stepped aside so that the kids could crane their necks and get a glimpse of Buffy Anne by the door.

“Her?” blurted Charlie in surprise. “But she’s just a girl.”

“Yeah, I thought she was just your girlfriend,” giggled Vi, rolling her eyes.

“Wait.” A chubby blonde-haired, blue-eyed cherub of a boy around ten stood up in awe as he recognized their visitor. “That’s the Slayer.”

“No way,” sneered a tiny version of the dark-haired girl called Hildy. Then she glanced at Buffy. “Are you?”

Buffy Anne blushed and nodded. “Yep. Hi y’all.” She waved.

“Holy - ” began a string-bean of a boy with spiked black hair and braces, nearly jumping out of his chair.

“Evan,” warned Will.

“I wasn’t gonna say ‘shit!'” he protested. “Except I guess I just did.” He raised a hand to Buffy. “Sorry, Miss Slayer.”

“Come join us, love.” Will beckoned Buffy Anne to their group. “Meet Vi, Hildy and her cousin, Sarah; Evan, Charlie, and Jack. Tossers, this is the Slayer - Miss Buffy Anne Summers to you - and you’ll be on your best behavior or there’ll be hell to pay.”

Evan kept shaking his head, looking gobsmacked. “Dude, I can’t believe you’re friends with the Slayer.”

“Not just friends, pint-size,” Will corrected. “Best mates.” He winked at Buffy as she approached the group.

“Hey, yeah. I forgot that I read about this. You work together,” little Vi recalled. “So isn’t she sort of like your boss?”

“Yeah, I’d wager that’s true. Except when I’m busy sort of being her boss.”

Buffy Anne slid onto a wooden stool next to Will. “That’s what it means to be partners with somebody,” Buffy Anne said. “You gotta take turns bein’ the boss. What’s Will been teachin’ y’all, anyhow?”

“Only everything,” Sarah said solemnly, as though Will had shown her the world. “I’m gonna write my own song.”

Every one of them chorused, “Me, too. Me, too.”

“That’s awesome!” Buffy grinned. “What are you gonna write about?”

“I’m gonna write about my dog,” the blonde boy named Jack offered.

“I’m gonna write a new song for FIFA,” Charlie said.

Buffy couldn’t stop smiling. “You’ve got great ideas!”

The girl named Hildy who sat next to Buffy looked up at her. “Can you write about things that don’t make you happy?”

Buffy nodded. “Definitely.”

“Well, my mom died last year. I got really angry about that. That’s what I want to write about.”

“That’s - yeah, I get that,” Buffy told her softly, and put a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“Miss Slayer,” Vi piped up. “When did you start playing the guitar?”

“Well, first, call me Buffy. I was eight when my daddy taught me to play. He had his own church but not much money so I was his music for a long time.”

“Do you still play for your daddy even though you’re famous?” little Sarah asked.

Buffy hesitated. “I would. But my daddy died a few years ago.”

The group of children looked sad as they all offered condolences: “Oh, I’m sorry.” “I’m sorry, too.”

“Did you write about it?” Evan asked.

“I did.”

“What song is it on your album?” asked Vi.

“That song didn’t make it on the album. The record company said it was too sad for mainstream.”

Sarah wrinkled her button nose. “What’s ‘mainstream’ mean?”

“Bloody sell-out rot, Niblet,” Will answered. “That’s what it means.”

Hildy raised her hand. “So you never play it?” Buffy shook her head.

“Would you play it for us? I don’t care if it’s sad.” Sarah shrugged.

“Yeah, we don’t care,” Vi agreed. “Not every song has to be happy.”

Will raised an eyebrow. “Sad songs say so much, eh? You lot would make Sir Elton proud.”

“Please sing it, Miss Buffy.”

“Yeah, please sing it. Please!”

She glanced at Will and when she spoke, her lips barely moved. _Would you?_

He nodded, picked up his guitar from his case on the floor and handed it to her, then picked up a spare from the rack in the corner and began to tune it. They sat together on the teacher’s desk and when he gave her a nod, she took a quivering breath and began:

 

_What do you do after the last ‘I love you’_   
_where do you go when no one's waitin' for you_   
_who do you love when there's no one tellin’ you_

_The last to leave’s_   
_the first to grieve_   
_and time can’t heal_   
_this wound you feel_

_How to hold on when no one's there to hold you_   
_how to hold strong when your heart's cracked inside you_   
_how do you fight when no one's there to fight for you_

_If no one hears you cry_   
_do your tears fall dry?_   
_you look, then leap_   
_but still you weep_

_How do you stand when no one's there beside you_   
_how do you crawl when no one's there to run to_   
_who do you tell when there's no one hearin’ you_

_It hurts to know_   
_you've been long let go_   
_and your heart beats on_   
_though love is gone_

_The house is so cold since your last ‘I love you’_   
_the rooms are so still since your last ‘I love you’_   
_and yet still I stay_   
_though you've long gone away._

 

The girls sniffled. The boys became mesmerized with the pattern of the floor tile.

“I love that,” Vi said finally. “I hate it too, ‘cause it’s so sad but I mostly love it.”

Hildy looked wonderingly at Buffy. “That’s exactly like it is. You know that people love you. But my mom would tell me so many times every day - that was her thing - and it’s so quiet now. It’s hard to believe in it when you don’t hear it.”

Sarah nudged her cousin. “I didn’t know you felt that way. I’ll tell you I love you.”

“Thanks. But it’s not the same, you know? I think I have to wait for someone new to love and start over.”

“Miss Buffy, are you going to write a new album?” Evan asked.

“Someday I will, sure.”

“When you do, you should put that song on there,” Sarah advised. “I bet tons of people miss hearing the ‘I love you’s and probably think they’re being dumb. It helps to know other people are going through the same stuff.”

“Yeah.” Buffy smiled. “Yeah, it does.”

Will glanced at the wall clock. “Exam time, kids. Otherwise your folks have no measure of what they’ve spent their hard-earned money on in the past month. Take a sheet and pass it along.” He handed Buffy a stack of papers, his forefinger running over hers as he did so. “No talking and no copying off your neighbor.”

As each child finished the exam, they placed the paper face down on the desk and turned to Will for a hug, a fist bump, or in the case of Hildy, both. She and her little cousin Sarah were the last to leave the room.

“Miss Buffy, what advice do you have for young musicians?” Sarah asked so studiously and in a voice so far beyond her years that Buffy had to fight the urge to giggle.

“I’m not really in any place to be giving advice,” she demurred.

“Sure you are, pet. What do you say?” Will asked her softly.

She took a breath. “I guess… keep playin’. Keep learnin’. And don’t be afraid to write the sad songs.”

Buffy helped Will clean up the classroom and put the desks back in order, finally meeting his eyes with a grin. “You as a teacher. Wow. There goes my belief in a kind God.”

“Yeah,” he barked out a laugh then winced. “Sorry about all that.”

“No, don’t be. I can see why you took this job.”

“Dalton roped me in. Money’s decent, actually, and you can see the kids are a trip. The girl Hildy, whose mum died? Bloody amazing natural talent. Like a wee June Carter Cash with a heavy dose of Alanis. Girl could never afford a school like Helmont, though, unless she’d get a full ride. She’d have to go indie and we know how far that gets you.”

“It’s almost like she’ll need the help of a private studio slash label slash dream mentor team.”

“Almost like.” His eyes twinkled at her.

“Too bad we don’t know of any place like that.” She swallowed hard. “Yet.”

“Buffy, are you saying you still…you want…?”

“Will, I never stopped. I’m just…tryna find my way.”

“Aren’t we all?” He sighed. “Look, if I know we want the same things, I can wait nearabout forever.”

“I won’t keep you that long.” She smiled.

He huffed out a surprised breath, trying and failing not to beam ear to ear. “Right then. Hey, reckon it’s too hot to get ribs for lunch? Could take you to Edley’s or…”

Buffy’s phone rang noisily and she frowned when she looked at it. “Giles.”

Her manager didn’t even wait to hear her voice. “Buffy. Listen to me very closely. Your performance tomorrow has been canceled, or should I say, rescheduled. For tonight. My dear, they want you to perform at the Ryman Auditorium.”

Ryman. The famous auditorium about to be celebrated as a national landmark. Original home of the Grand Ole Opry. Birthplace of legends. Stage of the stars. The real absolute deal.

“Are you close to downtown?” he continued. “We need you there as soon as possible. Cordelia already has your wardrobe together. Buffy, this is an amazing honor.”

“They want me to perform the Slayer, don’t they?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then that’s what they’ll get. I’m nearby. I’m on my way.”

She ended the call and looked helplessly at Will. “They want me at the Ryman tonight.”

“‘Course they do.” He gazed at her fondly. “Nice work, love.”

“I never thought…”

“I did. Surprised it took this long.” He walked over to her and squeezed her shoulders in his strong hands. “Relax. You’re ready.”

“Nothin’ like goin’ out with a bang,” she told him gamely.

“Out?” His face became flooded with concern. “What do you mean, ‘out?’”

“I’ll tell you more about it later but it’s all part of the new and improved independent Buffy Summers package. I slay on my terms, not anybody else’s.”

His hand wandered up and cupped her cheek. “Can’t say I’ll be all that sorry to see the old Slayer go. She could be a right bitch.”

Buffy threw back her head and laughed. Both Buffys. Will grinned to hear it.

“It’s nice to watch you be happy.”

“Well, buckle up, Mister. I intend on making a habit of it. Now the Ryman awaits.”

Will took her hand. “Then let’s give the Ryman a show it won’t soon forget.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like the Slayer, "Love You Down From Here" is one of the favorite songs I've written for this 'verse. As far as tuneage, it reminds me a lot of Bebe Rehxa's "Meant To Be" with Florida Georgia Line but it's not exact because, hi, not any kind of a musician here!
> 
> Spike's dialogue from Season 2 Episode 15 "School Hard" and Season 6 Episode 16 "Hell's Bells."


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What would a 'verse in Music City be without actual, you know, music? Later on in this chapter, you'll be given the opportunity to play a few seconds of guitar riff clips. I've tested these on Mac, PC, and mobile and can tell you that you'll likely be able to play them automatically on mobile, but you'll need the Google Music Player plug-in for desktop/laptop for them to play via Drive. If you don't care to hear the music, the songs used are listed in the ending notes, along with a link to some of my inspiration for Buffy Anne :)

Cordelia, all business in an official Ryman Auditorium t-shirt with a backstage pass lanyard around her neck, faded blue jeans, and boots was waiting for her at the back door and whisked her away from Will’s side to a dressing room.

Buffy Anne made a groan of protest when she saw the costume waiting for her, but Cordy shook her head.

“Sorry, kiddo. Tonight is too important. It has to be leather. But I’ve had them crank up the AC to Frigidaire levels so you should be good.”

She ironed Buffy’s dark hair completely straight and with the red leather pants, black leather halter top, and glossy black and red Slayer dress boots, the Slayer could almost imagine that she’d been transported back to Sunnydale to fight the snake mayor at her high school graduation. Cordy had done her makeup with a lot more spice than sugar this night - deep russet lips and smokey eyes. The little diamond cross glinted at Buffy’s throat. When she reached Will backstage, she thought he might go full coronary arrest at seeing her, given how his Adam’s apple bobbed, his chest heaved, and his nostrils flared. His eyes looked almost alarmed as they ran all over her, taking her in.

Buffy Anne chewed on her glossed bottom lip anxiously. “Whaddaya think?”

“Born to slay,” he rumbled and the sound of his voice trembled through her like an earthquake, her every nerve tremoring with a primal need. “You’re effulgent death incarnate, baby. What a way to go.”

She dared a smile. “So, it’s okay?”

“‘Okay’ isn’t in the same time zone, pet. You’re a bloody vision.” He kept looking at her like she might disappear or explode into glitter or something. “You’re truly going to slay them out there like this. You sure you wanna give all this up?”

The singer ran her hand down the sleekness of her leather pants and ever so slightly leaned into his ear. “This isn’t for them.”

Will’s lips parted at that and a hot, trembling breath eased out at the insinuation. The Buffys could tell he could barely control himself from absolutely panting for her. For the sweetest instant, he curled his tongue behind his teeth in an expression of Spike’s that had once driven the Slayer crazy with anger - although now she wondered if it hadn’t been crazy with repressed lust.

“So, a fellow might be able to get a private performance?”

“If he’s a very good boy. Or very good at being bad.”

“Ha,” he grunted out deep in his throat and immediately, Buffy Anne’s lower belly clenched with sudden desire. “Lucky for you I can do both.”

“Yup,” she breathed back, losing herself in his beautiful eyes. “Super lucky. That’s me.”

His brow furrowed as he gently pressed his hip against her. “Buffy…I - I want…but not here, right? Ryman’s the pinnacle, no doubt, but…”

Understanding, she nodded quickly and pressed her hand into his chest. God, his heartbeat felt crazy.

“Private performance,” she averred. “Just like you said.”

Gasping, he took his own palm and flattened it on top of her fingers so that she pressed even harder into his chest, groaning quietly with the contact.

“Yes, love, please…” he whispered, his hopeful smile almost tortured through his yearning. “God, I can’t wait to touch you, hold you, kiss you, make you mine. Please tell me that’s what we’re on about here.”

“Oh yeah, all about that, all over and on top and probably underneath and backward and forwards and any other ways you can dream up for us.” She licked her painted lips. “Please.”  
  
“Well, since you’re such a very good girl and said ‘please…’”

The Buffys weren’t expecting a kiss on the lips - he knew better than that. Wardrobe and makeup aside, the direction they were traveling in would’ve led to an immediate visit to one of the remodeled dressing rooms and there would’ve been no “Ballad of the Slayer” performed on stage this night (although a different, more intimate version would’ve been improvised). Carefully, so as not to smudge her base, he pressed his lips against her forehead once more. Take two of this kiss had no hesitation and no awkwardness but reverberated throughout her body.

“I’ll be waiting,” his husky voice curled in her ear before he slipped away from her. “And I’ll be watching.”

Just like that, any nervousness about performing melted away.

Meanwhile, the Slayer tried not to watch from the sidelines feeling vaguely out of place, like she was trying to ignore a boundary-challenged couple necking in public. _Well, that escalated quickly,_ she thought. _Get a girl in leather and all bets are off._ But she also realized this whatever-it-was between them had been simmering for some time. Not as long as Coach and Mr. Pratt, but a while. She also wondered what would happen if Buffy Anne and Will decided to, um, consummate their relationship any time before her leap. She could probably peace-out and take a nap to give them some privacy, but it would definitely be weird. She sure wouldn’t be in control and it sure wouldn’t be her Spike.

Wait. Her _reality’s_ Spike and God, no, she wouldn’t do that with him. Except…

This version of Spike smelled really good - like rawhide and smoke and…something yummy. He felt good, too. It had felt really nice when he kissed her forehead a minute before - chaste but so not. Like a promise. Spike and his promises. Best mates. Will didn’t make the Slayer feel icky or uncomfortable, either. If she had to be honest, she felt relaxed. Like she was home.

The Slayer had fallen so deeply into her own thoughts that she had missed Buffy Anne striding on stage and performing most of the “Ballad of the Slayer,” Live at Ryman ’01. But even this late in the game, she could tell the girl was kicking it - mostly because she suddenly didn’t give a great goddamn about those faceless nobodies out there cheering for her. Who cared if she rushed the chorus or fell a hair of an octave flat? She wasn’t performing for them. She was performing for him. Her partner, her match. The one boy in all the world who could wield the strength and skill to fight the forces of her darkness. A Slayer needed a slayer.

Or maybe a Slayer of Slayers.

Uh, no. No way. Absolutely not. This could not be the world in which the crux of the life lesson was how much sense it made to get groiny with _Spike_. Seriously? The Powers that Be had a dirty collective mind if that’s all they cared about.

In less than an instant, the performance was over and she was relieved of her guitar. Cordy had appeared by her side with an ecstatic smile and a hug. At the same time, Buffy found herself surrounded by a sea of photographers and reporters backstage. She glimpsed Will from a back corner by the stairs and held up her hand to him as if to say, duh - get over here! Ducking his head with a sheepish grin, she saw him trying to move his way to her through the throng.

Her bare back itched from contact with some scratchy fabric and she turned to see Giles in his tweed jacket right behind her, a warm smile for her and already answering questions that the journalists were peppering them with.

“How do you feel about performing at the Ryman, Buffy Anne?”

“Such an honor!” she shouted back.

“You gonna be doin’ some heavy partying after the show?” asked another reporter. The suggestion that the party would be a drunken one was obvious.

“Not tonight,” she called.

“Buffy won’t be at any bachelorette parties this evening. I think we all remember sowing our wild oats at such events as youngsters, don’t we?” Giles responded with a smug grin. The crowd murmured in chuckling agreement.

“When’s the next tour start, Buff?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but Giles answered for her. “We’ll have the announcement for the upcoming North American and international dates next week. Buffy is about to sign a groundbreaking, four-album deal that will revolutionize the music industry as we know it.”

Buffy whipped around to face Giles. “What? That’s so not true. Why did you say that?”

Giles had plastered a fake smile on his face. “Buffy, now is not the time or the place to have that discussion,” he told her quietly through his teeth. “You cannot announce your rejection of a multi-million dollar contract without discussing it with the label first.”

“But, Giles, it’s a lie.”

“Hey Buffy, what part of Europe are you most excited to see on your first international tour?”

“Buffy can’t wait to see Paris,” Giles answered brightly. “Yes, you in the back? Did you have a question?”

Desperately, Buffy looked over her shoulder and found Cordelia still standing by her side, arms folded and looking livid.

“International tour?” Cordy hissed. “You might wanna give a homegirl a chance to get her passport in order. Or one at all!”

“Cordy, it’s not true,” Buffy whispered back. “I’m not signing and I’m not doing the tour. Giles is just doing his publicity make-nice thing.”

“Well, you should’ve told Will because the second he heard that little bombshell, he turned on his heel and bolted outta here.”

“Shit, shit, shit,” Buffy fretted.

“Buffy Anne! For the third time, Miss Slayer, anything you wanna say to your fans?”

She and Cordelia met eyes and simultaneously rolled them. She faced the brash reporter and fixed him with her own shiny smirk of artifice.

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet! Thanks y’all!” And grabbing Cordy by the wrist, she fought her way through the crowd and to the safety of her dressing room.

***

“Dammit, boy. Answer,” she willed the phone as she dialed Will for the fourth time. Every call went straight to voicemail. She looked at Cordelia helplessly. They’d been taking turns calling to no avail.

Cordy shook her head as she hit a button on her Palm Pilot. “He’s turned his phone off.”

“Son of a bitch,” Buffy yelled, throwing her phone down on the carpeted floor.

“Uh, that’s how you lost the last one, remember? Lucky for you this isn’t concrete.” Cordy picked up the discarded phone and handed it to her. “You’ll talk to him later, that’s all.”

“I guess.” She frowned. “Think he’ll go back to the hotel?”

“Hard pass. He’ll likely go play pool with his buddy Dalton and smoke a carton of cigarettes ’til three in the morning.”

Buffy groaned and put her head in her arms at the dressing table.

“So no tour? No contract?” Cordy sat next to her. “Why?”

Briefly, Buffy filled her in about the morality clause and the plans she and Will had to open their own studio with their own label, making music their way.

A look passed over Cordy’s face then, like she’d just figured something out. “So that’s… Yeah, he’d be pissed.”

“What am I going to do?”

At that moment, Giles burst into the dressing room looking cross.

“Buffy, that was very unprofessional,” he scolded. “Leaving me alone out there to answer questions at your own press conference.”

“Looked like you were answering just fine. Spoutin’ off for me in ways I would never do in a million years.”

“There is a protocol to follow. We need to meet with the label and their representatives on Monday regardless. If we can’t compromise, then you reject the contract. In the meantime, you’re good publicity for the label. It may make them more likely to negotiate with you.”

“Giles. Read my lips: no contract. No tour. It’s not even a matter of the stupid morality clause. I want a different life. This is how I get it.”

“Buffy, after you complete this contract, you can have whatever kind of life you choose. You’ll never want for a thing again. Surely you realize that.”

“Realize it, yep. Care? Nope.”

“Buffy…”

_God frickin’ dammit. I can’t get him to listen_ , Buffy Anne fumed.

_Ahem_. The Slayer tapped her twin’s mental shoulder. _Do you trust me_?

_Hell…yes. Go for it, Slayer_.

The girl cleared her throat. “Giles, you’re fired.”

At the look of complete shock and betrayal on his face, the young singer wanted to go howl and hide but the Slayer…she stared at this version of her Watcher with tears in her eyes and refused to back down.

“Buffy, you don’t mean that,” he cried helplessly.

“I do. You’re not respecting my wishes or me. The minute I told you that I didn’t want that contract, it was your responsibility to contact the label so I’m not leading them on. That…” she pointed at the wall toward the stage, “…was the Slayer’s swan song. The next label I have will be mine. And if I never sing the damn ‘Ballad of the Slayer’ again, it will be too soon.”

Cordy had already turned away from the two of them to busily study her Palm Pilot.

Giles tried to compose himself, refusing to meet her eyes. “I see. I will of course give you some time to reflect but I will honor your decision. You can find me at the hotel.” Without another word, he left the room.

“Wow,” Cordy said finally. “Bet this is the time you’d be really jonesing for a drink, huh?”

“I would be,” the Slayer mused, with Buffy Anne right along with her. “Not so much right now.”

“Fantastic!” Cordy grinned. “But allow me to superglue myself to your side tonight just to make sure?”

“Yeah.” Buffy smiled back at her. “Please.”

***

Cordy helped her change back into her street clothes and remove her makeup. Buffy put her hair in a ponytail and threw a crossbody purse over her shoulder. By the time they left the dressing room, the cleanup crews were in full force and the crowds had long gone.

“Ryman.” Buffy Anne came forward to walk across the empty stage. “I wanted this my whole life and now that I’ve done it…it’s just another gig, you know?”

“You’ve moved on,” Cordy noted. “You wanna make something that’s yours alone. I say fuck it and go for it. Life’s too short.”

“Really?” Buffy looked back at her wryly. “Fuck it?”

“How’s the line go? If you can’t say it, you can’t do it? Come on. Let’s limo back to the hotel and watch really bad reality TV while we wait for your boy to drag in.”

***

Pleading exhaustion, Cordelia left for her own room at midnight. They’d done exactly what she suggested with the bad TV fest along with ordering a sinful amount of room service snacks.

“Hey,” Cordy said hesitantly before she padded down the hall. “You might have heard that Will and I both had to take on some work in the last month to get by.”

“Cordy, I am so, so, sorry for that and you’re gonna get paid retroactively from…”

Cordelia held up her hand. “Money’s already in my account. Not the point. I’m hosting a Songwriter’s Night at the Bluebird Cafe tomorrow - I mean, tonight. I’d love for you to come but if you can’t, I just wanted you to know where I was. Not bailing on you, ‘kay?”

“Got it.” Buffy nodded. “Thanks. And I’ll definitely plan on it.”

***

1 am. No Will.

Restlessly, Buffy got up from bed and wandered around the room. She spied the camcorder box on the side table that she hadn’t even opened yet. She suddenly knew exactly what she wanted to do.

She rifled through the storage box that held all her news clippings and magazines until she found the bag of video tapes. Now that she inspected them, she saw how they all had labels. She popped one into the camera that said “Fair 1988” and pulled the screen aside to watch.

Twelve-year-old Buffy played guitar and belted out a fine rendition of “I Will Always Love You” that was received with much applause and many hoots of praise. At the end of the song, a very young Hank Summers ran to Buffy’s side and hugged her tightly. The microphone on Buffy’s sequined Western-shirt lapel picked up his voice saying, “Buffy, that was beautiful, honey. I’m so proud of you. I love you so much.”

Swallowing back a sob, Buffy Anne stopped the camera abruptly and pulled out the tape. It had been so long since she’d heard those words from her dad. From anybody, really.

What _do_ you do after the last ‘I love you?’

Giles didn’t tell her. Cordy didn’t tell her. The Helmont girls told her, but “love ya, girl” didn’t really count, especially when they were barely in her life. And Will. Will sure as hell didn’t tell her. Even last night at the Ryman. He wanted her, sure. But love? Buffy’s heart started pounding wildly. What if he wasn’t in love with her? What if she’d pour all her heart and soul into him only to find out she’d only be good for a whatchamacallit? A “shag?”

The Slayer’s eyes rested on another tape: “Demo Notes 1999.”

“No, Slayer, no,” Buffy Anne keened. “No, I can’t.”

_Look, go stalk my head - find out all you want about my Will and my world and whatever else you want. But something tells me we need to see this._

Sighing in resignation, the singer switched out the tapes.

A female hand came into view as the camcorder was set into position on what appeared to be a desktop tripod mount.

“Why are we recording this again?” came Will’s annoyed voice from off camera.

“For posterity and so if we have to fix the demo we can go over our notes without having to actually make, you know, notes,” Buffy answered. She walked in front of the camera and sat down in one of two empty wooden classroom chairs with her guitar in her lap. “I gotta warm up.”

He slid in the seat next to her with his own guitar. “Same.”

The Slayer realized that they were in a fluorescent-lit, small classroom with desks and chairs pushed aside to create a two-seat duet space in the middle of the room. Behind them awaited what looked like a cozy, glass-walled room with a maze of instruments, microphones, and recording equipment.

Will began playing a few opening chords and Buffy smiled in instant recognition and joined him in strumming: <https://drive.google.com/open?id=14Nmm6a0NV3OnvPKrYztxTZV_462TC7z->

Him: Oh baby, you’ve got the love I need  
Her: Maybe, more than enough  
Him: Oh darlin’ darlin’ darlin’, walk a while with me  
Her: Ohhh, you’ve got so much  
Together in harmony: so much… so much…

Will grinned. “Can’t believe you know that one.”

“Are you kidding? One of my daddy’s favorites.”

He cocked a brow. “Pastor Summers must’ve had a killer record collection.”

“Yeah, we might can even listen to it someday if it hasn’t all melted by now.”

“Buffy, we gotta get you a better storage unit.”

“Never mind that. Let’s just get this down.”

“So what are we starting with then? The ‘Ballad of the Slayer’?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Tell me about this Slayer.”

“Okay, well, she’s me.”

“Obviously.”

“Only a different me in a different place. She…started out a regular girl and then got like, whammied by a lightning bolt or something. Sudden, overnight, instant power to…I dunno.”

“Vanquish the forces of darkness?” he offered.

She pointed at him in delight. “Exactly! She didn’t get to choose it but she does get to choose how she uses it. She wants to use it for good…”

“But what does that look like, right? Because the power in and of itself isn’t good or evil.”

“Right. And there’s a problem.”

He rolled his eyes. “Of course there is.”

“She’s in love. With one of those forces of darkness.”

“You do like to complicate things, don’t you? So this ballad of hers, it’s more her ballad to him. I assume it’s a him?”

“Oh yeah. A hot and sexy, evil to the gills badass hombre. It’s a ballad but also a challenge. Like look out, here I come. This is what you’re gonna get if you tussle with me.”

“Hmm. I’m thinking along the lines of…” <https://drive.google.com/open?id=1hbX0EVviK14IzI9uN1wCCtY8CtU5ItNd>

Buffy clapped her hands. “Yes! That’s exactly what I want. God, am I the only one in the world who likes Layla Unplugged better than the original?”

“If you are, then we can found a nation of two. Right, key here?” He strummed once and she nodded. “Okay. Run through it once and I’ll see where it needs tweaking. 5, 6, 7, 8…”

The Slayer’s song sounded out, only stripped down and sexy in a way that called to mind more smoky lounge singer than bubblegum pop. A completely different version than the one she currently performed.

“Hell, that’s not a ballad or a challenge, Slayer, that’s a kind of love letter,” Will told her in awe when she finished. “That’s a damn seduction. The way you sing it anyway. Poor bastard wouldn’t have a chance.”

She tilted her head at him. “You think he’d give up all his evil ways for her?”

Will smirked and strummed on the guitar. “You've got to change your evil ways, baby/Before I stop loving you…”

Buffy laughed. “Only I think he’d have to do it before she’d start loving him.”

“I dunno. She might like him a little bit bad. He’d definitely love her for being a warrior.”

She started playing a riff and then began to croon, <https://drive.google.com/open?id=1z3pBoNtiVL_YSTU4i254xG4rc39t1d4s>: “Shooting at the walls of heartache bang, bang…”

He threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, that’s cute. I love that.”

“So will you back me up on the ‘Ballad of the Slayer’? Pretty please with cigarettes on top?”

“Yeah, of course. Let’s do it.”

—

“And we’re baaa-aack…” Buffy singsonged when the video started recording again.

Immediately, Will started playing: <https://drive.google.com/open?id=15niaVj8hkip5R3O7n_kz-NIqBIWrPkFR>  
Buffy laughed and joined in with her own guitar.

She stopped abruptly. “You know? Screw all this original songwriting crap. This is what the album should be: country covers of all our favorite rock anthems.”

“You’re on your own there, pet. I don’t sing. Remember?”

“I don’t know why, though.”

“Because the only one here worth singin’ is you.”

“But, Will, your voice is beautiful. Like fallen angel beauty.”

“Leave it, please? Okay?” His voice had a dangerous yet pleading edge to it.

Buffy shrugged uncertainly and focused on the notepad on the desk beside her. “Yeah, okay. Um, next on the list is ‘Love you back from here.’ Why? What’s with the face?”

“It’s wrong.” He frowned. “Shouldn’t be ‘back.’ Should be ‘down.’”

She stared at the pad of paper she held. “Oh my God. You’re right.”

Will scooted closer to her and pointed to the writing. “Yeah, see? Because it’s gonna go, ‘love you down from here until I die…’ and then it echoes that ‘beneath while you’re above’ in the next verse, like she’s on the pedestal.”

Buffy met his eyes. “Please tell me you’re singing this.”

He quickly looked away. “No, I mean, for the Slayer it’s um, you know, she’s imagining what her bloke’s said to her and tryna suss out her feelings.”

“But it’s her forces of darkness guy serenading her. Will, you have to sing this. You would, like, rule this song.”

“No way. Not happening. Giles doesn’t want me on this, pet. He barely wants me here now.”

“Well, he can bloody well get over it.”

“Slayer, you’re abusing the King’s English again. Now let’s get on with it.”

—

“‘Dusted’ is a duet. I don’t care what you say. Drag some dude off the street if you’re not gonna sing it with me but I cannot, will not sing ‘Dusted’ alone.”

“Fine, I’ll make one exception. For the good of the demo and puppies and Christmas, all right?”

“Geez, you know this whole album is as much yours as it is mine, I hope.”

“I don’t need that. You do.”

“Well, it’s a means to an end, isn’t it? Because we’ll never have our own recording studio or label, or be able to help the talented kids who can’t afford all of these bells and whistles if I don’t whore myself out a little bit.”

Will visibly cringed. “That’s so fucking ugly, Buffy. I hate it when you say that. That price’s too damn high.”

“If I jump on a gravy train, I gotta see it through. However far it’s gonna go. I gotta get the most I can out of the ride for as long as it’ll last.”

“And it may well drag you right behind it or run you clean over.”

“Not if you stick around.”

“You see me going anywhere? Buffy, it’s just too easy to get lost. It happens before you know it.”

“He speaketh from experience?”

“Maybe. Look, you want my story? Sing what we wrote. Read between the sodding lines. You’ll get it.”

“But I can’t sing without harmony. You remember harmony, right?” Her head started bobbing to a fast internal beat and she began chanting, “‘Haaaaarrrmony in my head…’”

“Oh, brilliant,” Will breathed, giving her an appreciative slow clap. “Yes, please sing Buzzcocks to Giles, pet, so I can watch his head spin on its bloody axis and explode.”

She grinned. “I will if you will. Sing ‘Dusted’ with me so it’s the best it can be.”

“Roll it then.”

—

Both Buffys found themselves in tears: one for how much she missed this man, the Slayer in mute shock at how much the girl had intuited about her, and both for noticing how good this Spike and Buffy had been to each other. True partners, joined together in a mutual passion for music and creativity, with a noble goal at the end that had gotten lost. And he had warned her about that, hadn’t he? Wandering alone in the darkness could so easily lead to losing one’s way. If only she’d held tight to him to guide her out of those woods. Why had she ever let him go?

The Slayer wiped her and Buffy Anne’s wet eyes. How similar to her Spike this Will was - and how very different. The vampire back in Sunnydale couldn’t tell her he loved her enough. If she hadn’t shut him down, she could imagine that he would’ve lurked outside her window every single night in the Spike rendition of pulling a John Cusack with a boombox. Will hadn’t said those three little words once, but everything he did - every word he helped compose, every glance he gave her, every laugh that showed how much he enjoyed her company, and in every utterance of praise or even necessary reproval - positively shouted his love.

“Look at him. Listen to him. He says he loves you a million times over.”

_What about you, you hypocrite?_ Buffy Anne cried. _I just started hunting through your memories and I can already see how your dude’s all but died for you and you just got past thinkin’ he’s got more in common with the furniture!_

“Yeah, well,” the Slayer muttered. “That’s my life, not yours.”

_Well, seein’s how you got one foot in the grave? Excuse me for not takin’ advice from a near-corpse to heart, honey._

Buffy heaved out an exhausted breath. “You’re excused.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I caught this beautiful local songbird years ago who inspired our Nashville songbird Buffy Anne. Megan recorded her own demo song last year before she left performing to work in the business end of the music business. "A little bit of sugar, a little bit of spice" is my vision of Buffy Anne and just so happens to be the theme of this song! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OCq0QTvpbuQ
> 
> The song clips Buffy Anne and Will riff in the video are: "Over the Hills and Far Away" by Led Zeppelin, "Layla - Unplugged" by Eric Clapton, "The Warrior" by Scandal featuring Patty Smyth, and "Back in Black" by AC/DC. Also, they aren't in clips but Will strums along to "Evil Ways" by Santana and Buffy Anne sings the chorus to Buzzcocks' "Harmony in my Head."


	17. Chapter 17

The Buffys awoke to pounding on a door.

“Will,” they whispered and leapt off the edge of the bed where they’d lost the fight against sleep around four am. The adjoining doors between her room and his that she’d left open in hope last night were now closed and the clock next to her bed read eight-thirty. When had he gotten in?

The pounding came from the main door to her room. Puzzled, she went to open it and found a very exhausted and tense-looking Giles on the other side.

He held up a hand. “Yes, I realize I’m still fired. But you need to see something.” She stepped away from the doorway and allowed him entrance.

With his bulky laptop computer in his hands, he hurried in and sat it down at the table, adjusting the screen for her view.

“After your televised performance at the Bicentennial Mall stage, an anonymous viewer sent an email to one of the label’s representatives who forwarded it to me. It’s about William.”

Her throat tightened. “What about him?”

“Buffy, the reason why he’s never shared his past with any of us is that, well, he didn’t so much leave England as escape. He once had a career of his own, actually, performing a much different sort of music. He went through a period of grass-roots popularity in some of the underground London music clubs about two years before he moved to the states.”

“That’s a nice little story.” Buffy smirked. “Too bad there’s no proof.”

“Oh, but there is, you see.” Giles clicked open the email and several gritty photographs were displayed on the screen: a young man with impossibly bleached blond and spiked hair, silver piercings in his left eyebrow and ear cartilage, wearing a ripped white tank top and nearly shredded jeans, captured with his mouth bellowing into a microphone. Each picture caught a similar pose at a different live venue with slightly different attire- all of it punk, all showing him on stage with an electric guitar, and all of him undeniably singing.

_I don’t sing, pet._

Buffy licked her dry lips. “So? He had fifteen minutes of fame as a pseudo-Johnny Rotten. So what?”

“His stage name was Spike. He became so popular that he was offered a music contract similar to yours, a trial run, which he signed.” Giles paused. “He reneged on the contract, Buffy. He never fulfilled his obligations to the label. As of this date, his debt remains unpaid.” Giles took off his glasses. “William fled from England because he couldn’t make his own career work so he found a way to commandeer yours. Have you checked your balances recently? Are you absolutely certain he’s not siphoning money from your accounts?”

“Giles, he wouldn’t do that! That’s - no.” The singer was trying desperately to believe in Will but her resolve was waning. There was simply too much she didn’t know about him.

“Buffy, I want more for you. Your feelings for him are coloring your judgment. I can hear it in your voice. And that way lies a future filled with pain. I don't want that for you.”

“I don’t want pain, either! A big no to the pain, thanks. Have you ever thought that your feelings for me are coloring your judgment?”

Giles met her eyes. “Every day. That’s why I’m here now. Not as your manager but as your…”

“What, friend? What are you to me, Giles, huh? Do you love me?”

The man blushed. “Please, Buffy. Of course I care for you. But we don’t speak that way to each other.”

“Why the hell not? It would at least be honest! Giles, I love you. I do. I think the world of you. Since Daddy died, there’s been nobody who’s come close to meaning anything to me like you do. You’re not my manager. You’re not my teacher. Somewhere along the line, I adopted you. So you can either handle that and step up and be that - or…” She put a hand over her mouth.

“Or leave you, I take it,” he finished quietly.

The Slayer stood firm. “This is who I need you to be. I need to know if you can do that or if I have to grieve for another parent again.”

Giles couldn’t meet her eyes. He looked troubled and embarrassed. Buffy Anne wanted to scream at him that she’d take it all back, that he could stay her manager for as long as he wanted if only he wouldn’t go. But then she’d be lying, too.

“I need to give this some thought. It’s, uh, very sudden your…change of perspective. In the meantime, please look at the information in the email concerning William. It was sent to the label in the hopes of protecting you from him. I’ll leave the computer here. Return it at your leisure.” Without another word, he got up from the chair and left the room.

Buffy Anne paced in front of the computer as though it could attack her. The young man in the photos looked so unlike her Will, it was as though Spike was a totally different person. Her lips twisted in a grimace of a smile.

“Looks like I got a Spike just like you after all, Slayer. Damn.” She gazed at the screen. “Homes was just a baby. Look at those cheekbones. He’s nothin’ but muscle and pure grit.”

_He’s stupidly young there, you’re right. Easy to make lots of dumb decisions when you’re that young._

“Like throw your career away?”

“Right. That’s what I did.”

Buffy whipped around to see Will standing in the middle of the adjoining doorway, that look of lethal calm impenetrability boring into her.

Her heart pounded and unreasonable anger bubbled under her skin.

“What the hell is this, _Spike_? Pictures of you performing? I thought you didn’t sing.”

“It was a long time ago,” he muttered evenly.

“And now you’re in debt up to your eyeballs for bailing on your contract? Are there cops after you - or bobbies - or whatever?”

“Hey, I’m no welsher. I’m paying it off.”

“How? By stealing from me?” she snapped.

“Me? Steal from you?” he roared, his eyes ablaze. “Oh, that’s bloody rich, that is. Check your own history with me, pet, and I think you’ll find you’re the one with the sticky fingers. You see me hauling you into court? In the meantime, you’re talking out both sides of your pretty little mouth. Ready to flounce off on a tour you told me was all but dead, while I’m on the line skint, paying for a space you’ve got no intention of ever owning.”

Buffy’s mouth dropped open. “What? What are you even talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb, Slayer, it don’t become you. You wanna know why I went belly-up on my contract, because there’s a fucking good bloody reason…” He glared at her. “Forget it. You don’t deserve to know. All we’ve been through together and you can’t even cut me a sliver of slack when it counts. Well, fuck you, Slayer, and the horse you rode in on. I’m bloody well finished.” He stalked away from her and slammed the adjoining door behind him so hard it made the entire room shake.

It made Buffy Anne shake, too. Her hands were trembling, her knees felt weak, and she wanted to vomit. Inside, the Slayer could offer her counterpart nothing in the way of comfort. Because Buffy Anne’s conflicted feelings about her Spike nearly mirrored her own.

***

Curled up on the hotel room’s sofa, Buffy Anne had her arms wrapped around her knees. The thought had just crossed her mind that although no alcohol could be found in her own room, there were a number of bars and restaurants all over the Opryland resort that would be more than happy to -

A soft knock came at the door. Buffy ran to it and found Cordy in a long sleeveless denim shirtdress and boots waiting for her, with a garment bag slung over her arm.

“Giles sent me to get you over the convention center for the photo and autograph sessions.”

“Ugh,” Buffy groaned, rolling her eyes. “That is absolutely the last place I want to be today.”

“Did you talk to Will?”

“If you count have a big humongous argument and him storming out as talking, then sure.”

“Crap.” Cordy frowned. “What happened now?”

Buffy opened her mouth to tell Cordy all and then changed her mind. “Me and Will are just strangers when you get right down to it. Aren’t we?”

Her wardrobe and makeup mistress tilted her head, considering the question. “You both kept things all business from the day you met and crazy well, too. Did you know that we used to take bets at school because none of us believed y’all would last? Either one of you would throw down sooner or later, we were sure of it. But you showed us. The dream team. If you weren’t so sweet, we would’ve hated you both.”

Buffy snorted. “You didn’t exactly answer the question, Cord.”

“Buffy, straight up - there’s only so much you can get out of a business relationship. If you want to get more out, you gotta put more in. A lot of what I think you wanna know about him doesn’t come from sharing bank statements. It comes from sharing, well, yourself - whether that’s on a date or in your damn bed. You gotta trot down the romantic brick road. You just do.” She shrugged.

“Fuck,” Buffy Anne cursed under her breath.

“‘Atta girl.” Cordy grinned. “Now get dressed.”

***

Once Buffy Anne could focus on the little girls in baby cowgirl Slayer outfits who were starstruck at meeting her, she started having a lot more fun at the convention center and was able to put her fight with Will in the back of her mind. After the first three hours, she was about to take a break and stretch her cramping autographing hand when a familiar face appeared.

“Hildy?” It was one of Will’s students from his private class.

“Hi! I didn’t think you’d remember me,” the girl said shyly.

“Well, sure! But you didn’t have to come all the way here. I would’ve been happy to sign anything for you yesterday.”

“I didn’t have my CD with me and I wanted you to sign the poster, if you don’t mind.”

“The poster,” Buffy said blankly.

Cordy leaned over and took the CD out of Hildy’s hand while flashing Buffy a pitying look. “You have to open up the whole case”-she instructed with faux patience-“take out the whole insert and open it up. See? Lyrics on one side, your big, beautiful mug on the other.”

The poster featured the cover art from her album with lots of other stills of her performing on stage and posing at certain Nashville landmarks. The photos were scattered around, making the poster look like a page of a scrapbook. Remembering Coach, the Slayer smiled.

Buffy Anne poised her Sharpie. “Where do you want it?”

Hildy pointed just underneath the title of the album. “How about there?”

“Sure.” She began to sign her name right under the words “Pictures of You.” Under the fold of the poster, in smaller letters, was the copyright stamp: “Words and Music by Buffy Anne Summers, 2000.”

Words and music. Words and music. But they didn’t belong only to Buffy, they belonged to Will, too. Then she thought of what he said during their argument: _Check your own history with me, pet, and I think you’ll find you’re the one with the sticky fingers. You see me hauling you into court?_ Even further back, when he’d arrived: _You and I both know how far I’ll go down. There are some lines of mine you’ll never get to steal, love…_

Holy hell. He’d helped her write the whole thing - the Slayer watched him on videotape doing it, for God’s sake. And he’d never gotten a shred of credit. No share in the copyright. No residuals as a co-writer. Only a salary as a personal assistant. She’d used him but good.

_Slayer, I swear I had no idea. No wonder he’s so pissed._

The Slayer winced inwardly. _And what’s with that space he keeps talking about?_

_God, I agreed to it when I was drunk. I think it’s a studio space for us. I don’t remember and I’ve been too damn ashamed to ask. He must be paying the rent on that, too. What a damn mess._

The Buffys tried to recover as they finished the autograph for Hildy and hugged her goodbye.

“Are you ever gonna help teach with Will again?”

“I don’t know,” Buffy answered truthfully. “I’d like to, though.”

“You should.” The girl smiled. “You’re good at it.”

***

“I gotta help them set up at the Bluebird - you sure you’re good to get back to the hotel on your own?” Cordy asked.

“Uh-huh,” Buffy answered distractedly, wondering if she should go back to Helmont and grill Will’s friend Dalton in the computer lab about where he was or maybe find Giles and apologize or…

“And you’re coming later?”

“Definitely.” Buffy Anne flashed a smile. That’s what she could focus on, getting ready to see some undiscovered talent and support her friend. They walked to the Opryland town car together and hugged before going in their own separate directions.

***

Entering her hotel room again, Buffy could see how housekeeping had obviously made the bed and tidied up, as well as left her a stack of fan mail and a huge gift basket on her coffee table. Somebody had a real sick sense of humor on that, the Slayer noted: the focal point around the gourmet chocolates, shortbread cookies, salami, and fruit, was an enormous glass bottle of Southern Comfort liquor and two crystal shot glasses. Grimacing, she went to the basket and pulled off the card attached to read it:

_Here’s to making more beautiful music together! Congratulations on your new contract - we can’t wait to toast you for many years to come! With love from your good friends at Southern Comfort_

“Oh, God!” the Slayer blurted out in horror. “So the ‘southern comfort’ tour was actually sponsored by Southern Comfort? That’s the corporate sponsorship?”

“A fresh bottle in every city,” Buffy Anne mused. “Don’t get me wrong, they didn’t exactly pour it down my throat but…sure did make it easy to go for that kind of comfort. When I was lonely. Scared. Worried. Confused.”

“What about Will?”

Buffy Anne cocked her head to the side, remembering. “At first, it was so much fun. We used to laugh together all the time, make fun of the way Giles wanted us to rewrite the ‘Ballad of the Slayer' and tie-in all the Slayer swag, like the boots. Then he’d go to his room and…I guess I didn’t want him to go. I sure as hell couldn’t tell him. Giles was ridin’ my ass and I just couldn’t shake the thought that this whole Slayer thing was some fluke. I’m not even that good but Giles would say, ‘you tapped into something primal, Buffy, you can’t discount it.’” She imitated him and laughed bitterly. “Havin’ a shot before bedtime started makin’ sense. Then two shots. Then a shot in the morning. You get the idea. The more I drank, the less I saw Will, and the unhappier I got. So the more I drank.”

At that moment, her phone rang from her purse and Buffy Anne rushed to answer it.

“Hey girlfriend!” Nicole drawled. “I heard you slayed ‘em at the Ryman Auditorium last night - and what’s this about goin’ to Paris?”

“Nic, hey! Thanks and that’s nothin’, really, I don’t plan on being on tour again any time soon - ”

“I have been a total and complete bitca for not callin’ before now but this bachelorette weekend has just got me thrown!” She continued as though Buffy hadn’t spoken. “I got your message and it really couldn’t have come at a better time since we’ve had to make some last minute changes to the ole bridal party line-up…”

Ice touched the Buffys’ heart. “Changes?”

“You remember Tyler’s crazy cousin Curtis, right? Well, he went and broke his leg in four places up in Aspen, can you believe it? He’ll be in surgery and then in a damn wheelchair for weeks, long past the wedding. So he’s bowin’ out and instead of replacing him, Ty and I got to thinkin’ maybe we need to scale back a tad.”

“What are you saying?”

“I mean, you haven’t even gotten your dress yet - which I totally understand since you have been crazy busy - ”

“I’ve been on tour,” Buffy explained, her voice shaking. “Performing...”

“Exactly! So with Curtis out and you not even havin’ your dress, Ty and I just figured this would be a great chance to keep the bridal party a bit more close-knit.”

Buffy Anne sat back stunned. “You don’t want me in your wedding.”

“Honey, if it were any other time, this would be a non-damn-issue. But you know, my mama had a real good point. You are so busy with your singin’ and all and…look, when you’re in a room, who can even hold a candle to you, am I right?” She laughed a little too brightly. “Not even a bride can compete.”

“So…” Buffy swallowed hard and felt sick. “You don’t even really want me to be a guest. Do you?”

“You have been more than sweet and supportive through this whole engagement - as best as you’ve been able to given that you haven’t set foot in Nashville in over a year. You have tried so hard and I love you for it, I do. But you don’t gotta worry about little ole me and my silly wedding any more. Now you can focus on that big new tour and goin’ to Paris!”

Silent tears slipped down Buffy’s cheeks. “Sure.”

“Aww, I love ya, girl. I know you’ll be with me in spirit. And hey, just send any gifts off to Tyler’s MeeMaw’s house. The address is on the Knot registry. You take care now. Byeee!”

_Well, that was ridiculously rude. No love lost there, right? Right? Hey, you okay?_

“I just don’t get it,” the singer sobbed. “Why do they all leave? All of them? Always?”

_You do not want her. That girl is poison - please don’t start singing that, but she is. They all are. You would’ve outgrown them even if you hadn’t become the Slayer. You’re holding on to what they represent - some stupid idea of normal that doesn’t even exist. It’s like what Will said about being perfect - it isn’t real. Normal isn’t either._

“Then why do you chase it, Slayer, huh? I know you do. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be traipsin’ through my head, you’d be off makin’ beautiful music with your own fella. But he’s not ‘normal.’” She air quoted with a vicious sneer. “He ain’t even supposed to be anywhere near here and yet he talked to you through my Will in his dreams. Who loves anybody enough to do that? And why isn’t it enough for you?”

_Look, you have to trust me that Spike has led a vicious life. He is stone-cold evil and he can’t be trusted._

“Except with your baby sister all the damn time.”

_Only because he’s strong and, with the chip, there’s no way he could ever -_

“Ugh! Shut up!” Buffy Anne jumped up with her hands in vicious claws of rage. “Just shut it already. You are so damn self-righteous you belong more on a pulpit than my daddy ever did. God, talk about drivin’ a body to drink…” She paused and gazed at the gift basket. “You know what?” She reached over and tore through the cellophane. “Why not. Who gives a fuck.”

_I do! You can’t do this! You’ve been sober for days and remember how good it feels to be free? You are gonna hate yourself tomorrow, if not later tonight, and hey - what about tonight with Cordy? Remember tonight? Hello?_

It was the beginning of this leap all over again. Buffy Anne had tuned the Slayer completely out. She took out the mammoth bottle of liquor and caressed the label as if it were a lover. She seemed to be weighing its contents as though measuring how long it would take her to go through the entire thing - which would likely kill her. Which she didn’t seem to care about much at that very moment.

_No, no, no, no - please no. Please don’t do this. Think of Will. He’s just angry right now, you’ll make up and it’ll all be better. This is only right now, it’s not who you really are…_

Choking back a sob, Buffy Anne unscrewed the cap of the bottle and tossed it across the room. She lifted the bottle up to her lips and poured in a mouthful. The liquor burned the inside of her cheeks and the Slayer could almost feel the nerve-endings numbing along her gums.

Her phone rang again. Cordy’s number popped up on the tiny screen.

Buffy Anne froze, as though realizing what she had just done and instead of swallowing the foul liquid, she ran over to the bathroom and spit it out in the sink, gagging, then ran back to the phone to answer.

“You are planning on showing up, right?” Cordy asked, her voice low and nervous.

“Uh yeah, why?”

“Um, you might wanna make it sooner than later. There’s uh, a bit of a thing goin’ down here.” Her voice tried and failed to be conversational amid the din of a very crowded room. “Shit, I gotta go. Just get here as soon as you can, all right? We need all the support we can get.”

“We?” Buffy Anne stared at the phone after Cordy ended the call. “What ‘we?’”

Glowering at the bottle of Southern Comfort, she picked it up and brought it to the bathroom, poured the entire contents down the drain and brushed her teeth about five times. She looked at herself in the mirror.

“Thanks, Slayer.”

_I had nothing to do with that. You weren’t even listening to me. You did that all on your own._

The girl smiled faintly. “I did, didn’t I? Well, go me.”

***

Channeling Will, Buffy Anne dressed herself in a black tank top with black ripped jeans but with black flat sandals instead of boots and her hair pulled back into a messy bun. She didn’t look like the Slayer; she looked more like a roadie.

The Opryland car dropped her off at an ordinary strip mall about a half an hour on the outskirts of Nashville off a road called Hillsboro Pike. The Slayer eyed the location dubiously - this was a popular music club? But the parking lot was nearly packed along with the close quarters of the Bluebird Cafe itself inside and when a baby-faced young man was about to turn her away, she asked if Cordelia Chase had put her on the guest list.

“Gosh, Ms. Summers, I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you.”

She smiled. “I’m thinkin’ that’s a good thing.”

“For tonight? You bet. We’re packed to the rafters. Standing room only, hope that’s okay. Can I bring you a drink while you wait?”

“A Sprite would be super.”

Buffy Anne inched her way through the darkened, cramped room and it was only a few minutes before Cordelia appeared on the small stage in stunning black leather pants, spike heels, and a shimmery gold halter top. In her hand, she held a bow and fiddle.

“I didn’t know she still played,” Buffy Anne whispered in confusion.

“Welcome back to Songwriter’s Night. If you just joined us, I’m your host Cordelia Chase and this is not a prop.” She indicated the instrument and the crowd laughed in appreciation. “You can find me online at www dot strings, chords, and Cordy dot com. I’m available for studio backup as well as live performances. So please keep me in mind for all your violin and fiddling needs.”

Over the smattering of applause, Buffy Anne leaned stunned against the wall. Cordelia was trying to have a career - why was her friend the famous Slayer the last to know about it?

“I’ve known our next guest since freshman year at Helmont University. While he and I got along like oil and water everywhere except the stage, he hit it off big time with my favorite roommate. After a helluva songwriting career both here and abroad, he’s coming back to the stage solo for the first time in a dog’s age. Please give it up for my friend, Will Pratt.”

At the sound of his name, Buffy Anne’s heart started pounding under the applause but when the man himself appeared on stage with his shiny black signature guitar, she felt momentarily puzzled. This wasn’t Will. This man had much shorter hair with a lot more blonde and a lot less brown there, too, and with the ripped sleeveless t-shirt he wore, he looked ever so much like -

“Spike,” both Buffys breathed. Buffy Anne had never even seen this old shirt before, a vintage Pogues “Dirty Old Town” edition. Fitting, given his love/hate relationship with the dirty old town called Nashville.

He nodded to the crowd and took his seat on the waiting stool, but right away Buffy Anne could tell something was very wrong. It totally was not Will. The anxiety rolled off of him like a cloud of his smoke and he nearly panted with effort. He was, she realized, absolutely terrified. Will had stage fright. How had she not known this? But then he began to sing and play and any nervousness washed away as his incredible, strong voice carried out into the room:

_Sparking up like fire_   
_rising up like flood_   
_I feel you in my throat_   
_I feel you in my gut_

_You'll be the death of me_   
_and I can't seem to care_   
_you breathe your love in me_   
_I need you more than air_

_I'm drowning all in you_   
_couldn't save me if you tried_   
_pulled in your undertow_   
_I'm the happy man who died_   
_in your loving arms_   
_surrounded by your light_   
_I'm drowning all in you_   
_you save me from the night_

_The darkness where I live_   
_only you can touch_   
_the rays of love you give_   
_I crave your burn so much_

_Your heart beats on for mine_   
_your sighs become my breath_   
_I'm drunk on you like wine_   
_you're my life beyond my death_

_I'm drowning all in you_   
_don't save me, please don't try_   
_lost in your ebb and flow_   
_you're the only reason why_   
_I'd ever have a hope_   
_ever have a chance_   
_I'm drowning all in you_   
_dive with me in our dance_

Perfection. It did exist. Right here, right now. If he’d been an ice skater, the judges would’ve held up all 10s on placards, the Slayer noted in awe. Buffy Anne could only mutely agree, eyes full of tears. This song was hers, who she was to him but more than that, she recognized how it had affected the Slayer who occupied her consciousness and was trying desperately not to add to the waterworks.

_Talk to me, Slayer._

_That’s “I love you” right there. You wanted it, you’ve got it and to a kicking melody to boot._

_I know - now tell me why you’re wiggin’._

_Those words - the drowning. The throat and the gut stuff._

_Lemme guess - courtesy of your Spike?_

_Yes. God, why? Why are they like this? Why are these Spikes like this?_

_Like what?_

_In love with a Buffy? What’s the damn point?_

“Oh, Slayer,” Buffy Anne muttered aloud. “You’re asking the wrong question. Without love, what’s the point of anything?”

Cordelia quickly introduced the next performer who’d come out to relieve Will and Buffy Anne saw her friend search the crowd worriedly. At last, their eyes locked and Buffy Anne quickly edged her way to meet Cordy backstage.

“That is not Will,” Cordy said immediately. “No Will I’ve ever met. Buffy, he’s a mess. You wouldn’t know it to hear him sing or play but he is not himself.”

“I know.” She sighed. “He’s Spike.”

“Who the hell is Spike?”

“A guy who died a long time ago back in England. Is he supposed to go on again?”

“Yeah but I can work around it. Just find him. I think he’s on something. He took off out the side door and I’m really worried now.”

“It’ll be okay. I’ll go.” She paused and turned back to her friend. “Cordy, why didn’t you tell me you still played? I mean, I could’ve helped you, you know! That’s what friends do.”

“That’s exactly the reason I didn’t tell you,” Cordy admitted quietly. “I can get my own gigs, I’m not struggling. Besides, I didn’t want you to think that the only reason I was hangin’ around you was to mooch off the Slayer.”

“I would never think that. Look, we’re talking more about this later, understand?”

“Fine, sure, now go get him. Whoever the hell he is.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Giles quote from Season 7 Episode 14 "First Date."


	18. Chapter 18

Buffy Anne ran along the side of strip mall back to the front.

 

_Bum bum bum bababumbum._

 

_Bum bum bum bababumbum._

 

A staccato pulse like morse code.  What could be beaten on the side of brick walls in the same beat that her father’s hifi stereo bounced off her living room in bass guitar so many years ago?  A boot? A hand? A head?

 

“Will?”

 

From far away, like a siren song that promised more life than certain death, his voice - strong and clear and completely tortured:  “Why can’t we give love/that one more chance? Why can’t we give love…”

 

Buffy looked around the parking lot helplessly.  “Will, where are you?”

 

Then from behind the mall:  “’Cause love's such an old fashioned word/And love dares you…”

 

She darted around the building to see a maze of back alleys littered with trash and dumpsters.

 

“…to care for the people on the edge of the night and love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves….”

 

Where the hell was he?  Every corner she blearily passed seemed to propel her only further away from him as she tracked the sound of his beautiful voice echoing off the dirty cinderblock walls.  Out-Bowie-ing Bowie himself if Ziggy Stardust happened to turn up as a twenty-five-year-old Cockney-ish lad in an alley in Nashville. Who smoked a pack of cigarettes a day.  Who was hopelessly drunk. Oh God. Will never drank. Not so much as a beer. Why…

 

“This is our last dance,

“This is our last dance…”

 

She turned down an alley illuminated with stark white safety lights and found him slumped next to a stack of wooden and cardboard boxes behind a hole of a Chinese restaurant that regurgitated greasy steam from its outside vents.

 

“This is ourselves…” He held the last note impossibly long, a bottle of Jack Daniels dangling between his long fingers and his eyes closed as he crooned.

 

She crouched down in front of him and he opened his eyes, ending the song abruptly.

 

“Under pressure,” she whispered.

 

He grinned at her blearily.  “‘Allo, ducks. Knew you’d find me. Knew you’d top me off.  You always know what comes next. You’ll always be my last verse.”

 

Buffy reached toward him in horror when she saw his hair close up and saw how it was no longer his and so much like Spike’s.  Her hand faltered. “Will. Your curls. What happened?”

 

He thudded his head back against the stone wall.  “It didn't work. Costume. Didn't help. Couldn't hide.”

 

“Is this - are you Spike?”

 

“Spike’s dead.  This is all that’s left.  You go off and try to wall up the bad parts and put your heart back in where it fell out. You call yourself finished, but you're not. Worse than ever, you are…”

 

Buffy reached out again tentatively, this time to press her palm to his cheek and he jerked away from her like he’d been electrocuted.  “Hey, no touching.”

 

“Real gentle, okay?  Promise.” She stroked his jaw softly, feeling the skin quiver under her hand.  “Talk to me, please. You’re scaring me. This isn’t you! I’m the mess. You’re the one who’s always so together and in charge and…

 

“So weak,” he groaned.

 

“Never.   This is only right now.  It’s not who you really are.”  She carefully took the near-empty bottle out of his hands and tossed it behind her into an overflowing garbage can.  “Tell me about Spike.”

 

Will smiled at her so warmly she could feel it in her toes.  “You sure you wanna know?”

 

“I wanna know everything about you.” 

 

“He would’ve loved you and your Slayer.  Almost as much as I do. He loved Mum most of all and when she died, he died with her.  Tried not to but he drowned, right at the bottom of the bottle. The only love there was and he died without it.  Tried to sing. Even tanked he tried to sing, to write.” His lip curled. “It was all gone. Couldn’t give ‘em an album after that.”

 

Anger stormed through Buffy’s body.  “Of course you couldn’t. You were grieving!  That’s not your fault. You should’ve had a manager or a lawyer or a business partner - somebody looking out for you.”

 

He leaned his face into her hand, nuzzling her with a grunt.  “Maybe not my fault but I paid. Mum died. So Spike died. I crawled out of the ground, left them and their graves and kept on paying - whatever price I needed to rise again.  New man. New life. New country.” He smiled at her with sad fondness. “New love. You were enough. More than enough, darlin’. With you I could sing again, write again, live again.  Our words, your voice. Perfect for me.” He sniffled and shook his head. “Then I wanted to love you and I bollixed it all to hell.”

 

“No, you didn’t.  I’m the one who got lost.  You showed me how I could believe in you -”

 

“To believe in a lie!” he exclaimed.  “That’s what I asked you to believe in.  Never told you about me, my past. About Spike, my living dead.  All the evil he can wreak.”

 

Buffy reached up to stroke his shorter hair.  “Hey, you know what? Sounds like you and me and Spike and the Slayer could all get along just fine.”

 

He raised a brow.  “Kinky.” His striking blue eyes had been ringed with kohl pencil, only making them stand out more.  She’d never seen him in this kind of stage makeup. Talk about kinky… 

 

She eyed him suggestively.  “Only if you wanna make it that way, honey.”

 

Will’s grin was a rictus of pain.  “I thought I was strong enough to sing without you.  Then all the demons came rushing back and told me to go - go to hell.”

 

“Hey.”  She lifted his chin.  “Then don’t ever sing without me. You know a Slayer vanquishes all those big, bad demons, right?  So let me.”

 

He gazed at her morosely.  “I’ll ruin you, Buffy.”

 

“Not gonna happen,” she asserted.  “Will won’t and neither will Spike.  I believe in you.”

 

“For you to even consider that?”  He shook his head in wonder. “You’re a hell of a woman.  Not that I didn’t know that already.”

 

She stroked his cheek.  “Not just one, remember?   Me and the Slayer, what a wacky pair.”

 

Will caught her hand and squeezed it.  “What I feel for you, I know you need to hear it.  I know I can’t say it how you want but you gotta know:  my whole life here has been one long love song to you.” 

 

“I know that now.”

 

“ _Now_.  Aye, there’s the rub. Problem with you, Slayer, is that you’re so damn good, you make a man feel like he’s invincible”-he rolled his eyes with a smirk-“and I know that’s one of your old favorites.”

 

“Stand up and face the enemy?”

 

“More like it’s a do or die situation.”

 

“You gotta know that I didn’t find out until today that you never got credit for the album - you were supposed to be on there with me.  That’s what I wanted! I never for a second thought that they wouldn’t…”

 

“Ssshh.” He pressed an index finger to her lips. “Don’t you get I didn’t care?  As long as we were working together, I didn’t care. Because the album _was_ yours.  Your idea for the means to our end.  Then somewhere the means became all that mattered.  Dunno how.”

 

“We got lost.  It happens. We just gotta find our way again.” She looked around the alley wondering how far they’d wandered.  “Where’s your car anyhow?”

 

“Back in front of the Bluebird.  Here.” He fished his keys out of his back pocket and pressed them into her hand.  “Gimme a sec to clear my head and we can go back to the hotel.”

 

Buffy worried her lip.  “Could we make one stop first?”  He looked up at her curiously and she gulped.  “To see that space you keep goin’ on about?”

 

Will chuckled.  “Sure, now you wanna see it.  ‘Course Slayer. Gotta get a bit more sober first.”  He reached for her hands to help him get to his feet and stumbled over to the festering garbage cans on the other side of the alley.   Wincing, she watched as he braced himself against the wall with his left hand and shoved the fingers of his right down his throat to expel the alcohol from his gullet.  With two heaves, he finished, coughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

“Yeah, that was pretty,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse and deeply embarrassed.  He shook his last cigarette out of the box he’d pulled from his pocket and lit it with a quaking hand.

 

“Sometimes love ain’t pretty,” she told him grimly and came up behind him to wrap her arm around his back and under his arm.  “And it sure as shit ain’t perfect.”

 

“But if you’re lucky, it’s real,” he whispered and together they hobbled brokenly out of the alley, holding themselves together all the way.

 

***

 

“Left on McGavock,” he slurred, his head back in the passenger seat of his own car and his eyes closed.  “Then left on 17th.”

 

“This is right near Rotier’s,” Buffy realized out loud.

 

“Yeah, I told you that.”

 

 _Thank God you can drive,_ the Slayer told her host.  _I would be zero help in this situation._

 

_You’re a vampire slayer who wages war on the forces of darkness and you can’t even drive?  You got a strong taste for irony, dontcha? Then again, you’ve fallen in love with vampires so, I guess, yeah._

 

_One vampire, chickadee.  One.  But he's gone._

 

_What about Spike?_

 

Ha, good question.  What about Spike, indeed?

 

“Stop.” Will said, opening his eyes.  “Here.”

 

Buffy Anne squinted in the dark at the empty parking lot and the peak of the brick facade in front of them.  “Here? Wait. This is a church.”

 

“Was a church,” he corrected.  “The Addison Ave. Cumberland Presbyterian Church, to be exact.  Now…” he released the seat belt that held him in. “It’s ours. Come on.”

 

She hurried to his side of the car to help him out and he waved her concern away weakly.  “Stop fussin’. The stomach pump I gave m’self in the alley sobered me up fine.”

 

“Shut up and lean on me, doofus.”

 

“Bloody hell.”  He indicated the building with a nod.  “Head for that door, the one in the middle.  Want you to get the full effect, the money shot.” He chuckled.

 

“Pig,” she muttered.  “Okay, keys? Keys would be good here.”

 

“On my ring.  The big black one over to the side like.”

 

Together, they limped to the door and she helped him steady his hand when he put the key in the lock.  Then the door opened, he flipped a switch to bathe them in light, and Buffy Anne drew in a shuddering breath of awe.

 

First, a sweet, familiar smell hit her:  the spicy ghost of once-burned incense, the tang of old polished wood, and the remnants of candle smoke that had crept into the brick.  Like her Daddy’s old church. Like home.  

 

It wasn’t perfect; it would need a lot of work.  As she wound through the sanctuary, she could see how someone had created a slap-dash studio years before.  Three different recording spaces. A lounge. A closet of a bathroom with a makeshift shower. Over in the back, a hopelessly 1970s-era kitchenette and around that corner, two smaller rooms that had been converted into bedrooms.  One that was filled with items that looked very hers.

 

Buffy Anne whipped around to face Will, who’d been following a few steps behind her as she took the place in.  He leaned against the narrow wall behind her with a sleepy, contented smile on his face.

 

“You like it.” 

 

“Duh.  I love it but…” She looked into the tiny bedroom, at the old quilt on the bed that looked like a worn, handmade baby gift from maybe twenty five years ago.  “Mama’s quilt for me,” she whispered. “How?”

 

“It was good business is all.  That old storage unit you had was shit.  Found this place, got you out of the other.”

 

Against the wall, a shelving unit made from pallet wood reached the ceiling and held stacks of albums.  Mesmerized, she wandering over and flipped through a row with trembling hands. Led Zeppelin. Lee Anne Womack.  Leonard Cohen. Loretta Lynn. Beneath it, The Rolling Stones. Santana. Then Talking Heads, James Taylor, Thin Lizzy, Travis Tritt… All their albums, hers and her father’s, snuggled together for the first time.

 

She spun around the room in a quiet, breathless circle.  Whatever she had held on to in storage, Will had obviously transported here.  Her parents’ wedding photo. Her washed-out baby pictures. Her high school diploma.

 

“I can’t believe you did this.  This - it’s amazing it’s…” She huffed out a laugh of disbelief. “The rent on this place must be astronomical.”

 

“It ain’t rent.”

 

Her lips parted.  “You…”

 

“Bought it outright.”

 

“Will, sweet Jesus.  How?”

 

“May be payin’ off the bastards back in Blighty ’til the day I die, but as far as America goes, I got the credit of J.P. fucking Morgan.”

 

She looked at him blankly.  “I have no idea who that is.”

 

“And that, pet, is why you need me.”

 

“That’s not the only reason.  I can’t believe you really bought this…” She sunk onto the quilt-covered double bed and kept shaking her head in disbelief.

 

He shuffled over to the doorway and folded his arms as he leaned against the doorjamb.  “You were wasted, weren’t you? When I first told you about this?”

 

Guiltily, she nodded.  

 

“You had me fooled, love.  Christ, you’re an even better drunk than me.”

 

“How long has it been?  Since you’ve had a drink?”

 

Sighing, Will came into the room and sat next to her.  “Before tonight, the night I shipped over here. Washed up on America’s shores with a bitch of a hangover and never wanted to touch the soddin’ poison again.  Only reason I caved tonight was because I got in over m’ head. Thought it would steady me - and it did, it got me through the song. But that’s not all it did.”  He looked at her. “As you well know.”

 

She punched him softly on his bicep.  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

He snorted.  “That’s a recipe for a strong business relationship.  ‘Hi Buffy, I’m a drunk who bailed on my own music but allow me to help you write yours.’  Giles hasn’t trusted me from day one. He would’ve spirited you away from me so fast it would’ve made your head spin.”

 

“I fired Giles.”

 

Will’s eyes widened and, in a rush, she caught him up on all the activity of the past twenty-four hours, morality clause included.

 

“Those fucking monsters,” he railed.  “Cack-handed knobs. Pillocks. Manky berks.”

 

“Don’t stop now, you’re on a roll,” Buffy noted, smiling.  “If I do nothing, the contract expires tomorrow. Giles thinks I should negotiate.”

 

“What do you think?”

 

“Mostly, I think fuck it.”

 

Will grinned at her with surprised pride.  “You don’t say.”

 

“Also, you should know that I almost drank tonight, too.  Well, technically I did. I spit it out. I didn’t even let the Slayer try to stop me, either.  Then I stopped myself. All on my own.”

 

“I’m proud of you, pet.”

 

“Thanks, but….”  Buffy reached over and took his hand.  “I want this place. I want you. I want the future we always talked about.  But I think we gotta do something else first.”

 

He met her eyes.  “Time to pour out twelve steps with a detox chaser?”

 

“Uh-huh.  My treat.”  She looked around the room.  “You know, I’ve barely been here and already I’m gonna miss this place.  Even if we’ll be away for only a few weeks.”  

 

“That’s good.”  He reached over and flipped the light switch next to the door off, then kicked off his boots.  “Means it feels like home.” He pushed himself up to standing. “I’m gonna go brush m’ teeth.”

 

She giggled.  “You have your toothbrush here?”

 

“I moved in, love.  Couldn’t swing rent and a mortgage.  I said I had the credit of Morgan not the riches of Rockefeller.”

 

Buffy Anne eased herself down on the bed and slid off her sandals, still feeling dazzled and tingly with all the possibilities that had suddenly appeared.  Will had made a real home for her, one to live, work, and play in. For both of them. He loved her. Of course he loved her. Looking back, it seemed ridiculous to think otherwise.

 

Safe on the buoyancy of that thought, she’d almost drifted off when she felt him slide in behind her and wrap his arms around her middle.

 

“Welcome home, Buffy.”

 

“Welcome home yourself.”  She paused. “I love you.”  It felt like the most natural thing in the world to tell him now that all of their walls had come down.

 

Will snuggled into her neck and hugged her tighter.  “I love you, too.”

 

In the dark of the night as they snoozed together, the Slayer lay in her host’s body, wide awake and floored.  Another world, another Spike, and a whole other set of problems - with the only constant being how much the guy loved his Buffy.  

  
  


***

 

One year of sobriety.

 

That was the recommended period of time that an alcoholic needed to wait before starting a relationship, according to all the counselors Buffy Anne had met with in the past ten days.  Addicts generally made bad romantic decisions, for one. For another, they were emotionally raw and just beginning to experience the upsetting feelings that they’d previously numbed with drugs or alcohol.  A new relationship could easily overwhelm a newly-sober person who had lost sight of who they were without their addiction, never mind who they could be for someone else.

 

She got it, but the idea of not feeling Will’s lips or his arms around her again made her heart hurt.  It had been hard enough being separated from him for the four days of detox and fourteen days of counseling.  Both Buffys wondered what kind of advice he’d gotten in recovery.

 

“Buffy, generally that advice is true and it refers to new relationships and new people to your life,” her favorite counselor, Anne, told her during one of their last sessions.  How fitting that Buffy had helped the “Anne” known as Chanterelle the last time she’d seen her in L.A. and that this twin Anne popped in to help Buffy Anne now. 

 

“Will’s not new,” Buffy replied, frowning.  “And he was sober for years.”

 

“He never went through formal recovery, though.  I give him crazy props for doing so well on his own but since he slipped, he wants to start all over to do it properly this time.”  Anne paused. “I really don’t want you to replace your addiction to alcohol with an addiction to each other. That’s not fair to either of you.”

 

“But we work together.  That’s who we’ve always been.  And if I’m working with him, knowing how we both feel about each other now, I don’t know if I’m going to be able to keep my hands off of him.”

 

“Buffy…”

 

“Look, we’re not a couple of drunks who binged together.  We both want the same things, like staying sober. I understand a lot of the reasons I started drinking so much in the first place and yeah, I was numbing myself.  I didn’t want to think about how much I missed my dad or how my feelings about Giles had gotten so messed up or how I hated my career. I also think I was falling in love with my business partner.”  She smiled a little in recollection. “And I didn’t want to deal.”

 

“Do you now?  Want to deal with how you feel about him?”

 

“Big time.  Everybody says that they have a person in their life who’s never gonna leave them, or give up on them but I never had that until Will.  I know he’s not perfect but he’s real and it’s why I love him. I don’t know a lot about anything in life but I know he will never leave me.  I plan on being that same person for him.”

 

Anne put her pen down and gave Buffy a sympathetic look.  “That’s why we say the advice is _generally_ true.  Buffy, I’ve never counseled a couple like you two and I’ve been doing this for a while, so this is all kinds of uncharted territory.  I can’t forbid you to date each other, just make recommendations. I think in your case, you both need to be really honest with each other and talk about this stuff - a lot.  Having a sober support system is as important as having a healthy relationship with yourself. But your recovery has to come first - for each of you.”

 

“You’re saying the same thing to Will, too, aren’t you?”  When Anne nodded, Buffy Anne continued, “And you totally can’t tell me what’s going on with him, right?”  The treatment center was broken down by age and gender, so Will completed his program separately.

 

“Huge HIPAA violations if I did but…” Anne paused.  “I don’t think I’m breaking any laws to say that I see you’re on a very similar page which each other.  Will’s recovery won’t look like yours and that’s okay. If you can support each other while working on your own selves and take things really slow, you might have a good shot at a real relationship.”

 

“Slow.”  Buffy Anne rolled her eyes.

 

Anne grinned.  “Whatever that looks like for you two.  That’s something you’re going to have to figure out as well.  Who you are as a couple as opposed to business partners. It’s a lot of stress to put on a new romance while in recovery.  I recommend you go to counseling both together and on your own. It’ll be a lot of work but I think it’ll also be worth it.”

 

“He’s definitely worth it,” the singer whispered.  

 

“Four days until you’re out of this phase of your treatment and you’ll get to see him.”  Anne closed the folder with Buffy Anne’s case file and rested it on her lap. “Don’t count the days, make the days count.  Think about how you’re going to show each other respect and commitment to your relationship. Even draw up a plan of your goals to share with him.”

 

“Can I think about kissing him?”

 

Anne laughed.  “The professional side of me can’t comment on that.  Buffy, I know I’ve said a lot to probably dissuade you but couples in recovery together can often gain incredible support from each other, even create an amazing bond as they fight for health.  I think you and Will could be one of those couples.”

 

_Stand up and face the enemy - it’s a do or die situation._

 

The Buffys smiled.  “I think so, too.”

 

***

 

Perhaps the most healing part of those days of recovery had to be the time the Slayers spent with each other.  Buffy gave Buffy Anne full access to her thoughts and memories and vice versa.

 

_Thanks to you, I know my mom could’ve probably been wonderful._

 

_And thanks to you, I know at least one version of my dad wasn’t a total commitment-phobe abando-freak._

 

“I dunno what to tell you about the rest of it, though, Slayer.  You got your work cut out for you for sure.” Buffy Anne sighed, sitting in the field of clover behind her private cabin to take in the sunny beauty of the Blue Ridge Mountains.  When it came to recovery, the only place she could think of going was back to the healing hills of Asheville and the Son Valley Treatment Center that her dad had helped found through his church so many years ago.   “I can see why you wouldn’t wanna go back. Boy, do I. But there’s so much left there that’s good. Like Dawnie.”

 

“Sometimes I think she’d be better off without me.”

 

“She really wouldn’t but more than that, I don’t think you’d be better off without her.  We need all the love we can get. Plus…” Buffy Anne picked at the clover restlessly. “Knowing what I know now, I don’t know if I could close the door on Spike if it were me.”

 

The Slayer’s heart skipped a beat at that.  “You’d still be in love with Will if he were a demon?”

 

“Well, that’s what got me to dream up the ‘Ballad of the Slayer,’ isn’t it?” Buffy Anne considered the question.  “So kinda...yeah. I mean, real love doesn’t come around every day. If your Spike can go from wantin’ to kill you to nearly gettin’ killed for you, all while bein’ supposedly evil, that’s some real wacky love.”

 

“Real soulless wacky love,” the Slayer corrected.  “Hey, your dad was a preacher. What would he have said about all this?”

 

Buffy Anne cocked her head, thinking.  “How we all got demons. That the true measure of goodness in us is how we treat the least among us.  We don’t show ‘em love because they’re good. We do it ‘cause we’re tryna be. ‘Whatsoever you do to the least of my brethren,’ that whole deal.”

 

“Spike will never be brethren.  He’s not a man.”

 

“No, he already was.  And if he’d stayed that way, he never would’ve been in your life at all, so…” Buffy Anne shrugged.  “Guess it’s a matter of how much the love means to you.”

 

“He helped save my sister,” the Slayer whispered.  “He’s with her every day now. With me every night.  Wherever I am.”

 

“‘Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.’ For a soulless demon, he sure ain’t lovin’ like one.  What do you know about him, Slayer? I never would’ve guessed Will and I shared so much in common - him losin’ and mournin’ his mom as he did, the drinkin’, the whole tryna reinvent ourselves.  Where did your Spike come from? How did he come to be who he is?”

 

“I…” Her mouth went dry.  “I don’t really know.”

 

“Then maybe before you judge, you might wanna find out.  ‘You, therefore, have no excuse, you who pass judgment on someone else, for at whatever point you judge another, you are condemning yourself, because you who pass judgment do the same things.’”  Buffy Anne squinted across the mountains. “Can I get an amen?”

 

The Slayer sighed.  “Amen, sister.” She finally let go for a moment, if not let God.  “Amen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Under Pressure" by Queen with David Bowie.
> 
> Spike's dialogue from Season 7 Episode 3 "Beneath You" and Episode 20 "Touched." Maybe a wink to Season 5 Episode 7 "Fool For Love, while Buffy Anne nods to Season 6 Episode 10 "Wrecked."
> 
> Lyrics to "Invincible" courtesy of Pat Benatar.
> 
> The studio Will bought is a real place, with a real history, and has been a real studio since 1968. Southern Ground Nashville is now owned by Zac Brown and you can find out all about it here: https://southerngroundnashville.com (And because I'm a total geek about stuff like this, here is what the outside of the building looked like before all the renovations: https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/114-17th-Ave-S-Nashville-TN-37203/2130909655_zpid )
> 
> While I'm not deeply religious, it seemed like a pastor's kid might be pretty familiar with scripture. The two verses Buffy Anne quotes are 1 Corinthians 13:7-13 and Romans 2:1-3. I promise I shall preach to you no more.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is: the last chapter of our Nashville sweethearts. I had no idea where they were gonna go on this trip and wow, they surprised me in the best way. If you liked this story the least little bit, thank my beautiful beta OffYourBird for ensuring that it's been readable, entertaining, and in character. 
> 
> One of my readers found the following video of a familiar song. She had no idea that I had this song in mind while I was writing this sweet little couple and the couple she found singing it are crazily similar to our own duet. Gave me chills for sure! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rlaZoZwYhJQ&list=PL4YUsfRlbUvssu2Fy19Q19cQRWU4wksfD&index=32&t=0s

Visiting day arrived the day before their official last day of treatment and Buffy Anne’s visitor appeared to have been waiting for her awhile when she met him at the main cabin of the treatment center village.  Giles jumped up from the bench he’d been languishing on to greet her.

 

“Buffy, it’s so good to see you.” He grinned, embracing her in a tight hug.  “You look quite well. Very well rested and your color is excellent.”

 

She hitched a brow at him.  “Only in treatment here, not in a coma, but thanks,” she said wryly and returned the hug with a grin.  “It’s great to see you, too. Thanks so much for coming. Did you get checked in already? Is the B&B okay?”

 

“It’s lovely, I couldn’t ask for better accommodations.  And of course I wouldn’t miss this. I am so very proud of you. Both of you.”  He paused, and flashed her a shy smile. “Buffy…” He rolled his eyes at himself.  “Dear Lord, I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I practiced this several times…”

 

“Practiced?” she echoed in surprise.

 

“Yes, it was important that I say this correctly.  I never thought…no.” He frowned. “That’s not quite accurate.  I never wanted to believe that your drinking was anything more than a young person being young.  Even when Cordelia and William came to me about staging an intervention, I insisted - rather stubbornly - that their fears were unfounded.  Then when you lashed out and ended your relationship with them...I-I became very scared. I thought that if I said or did something to upset you, I would have no place in your life at all.”

 

Buffy Anne looked down.  “I felt the same way. That unless you were my manager, you wouldn’t want anything to do with me.”

 

“It’s all much more complicated, isn’t it?  I never married, Buffy. Never wanted children.  But something changed in me when I met you. All I wanted was to see you be as successful as you could be - never realizing the toll that would take on you.  I believed that as long as I remained in your life in some way, that somehow all would be well. I could not believe you were in crisis because that meant I had utterly failed you.  And that, I could not bear.”

 

She reached over and squeezed his hand.  “I should’ve given you what for from day one.  But I wanted like hell to please you. I missed being somebody’s daughter so much…” Her eyes filled with sudden tears.  “I didn’t think you wanted that so I didn’t know how else to keep you.”

 

“It’s far more important that you keep yourself and I should’ve been encouraging that from the very beginning.  I couldn’t decide between being your surrogate parent or your manager, so not surprisingly I floundered at both.  I think I understand how you need me in your life now and I’m more than happy to fit that bill if you’ll let me.”

 

Buffy Anne sniffled and wiped her eyes.  “Don’t worry, I won’t be callin’ you Pops.”

 

“Thank God for that.”

 

“And Giles?  Thank you.”

 

“It’s my pleasure, my dear.  My true pleasure.”

 

“So now…” She glanced at the familiar leather briefcase at his feet.  “Business?”

 

Giles grinned.  “Whenever you’re ready.”

 

—

 

“And they’re ready to speak with you again whenever you’re willing, no strings attached,” Giles finished, explaining what Buffy Anne’s label had decided upon her abrupt departure and rejection of their contract proposal.

 

“So they know I’m independent and they still want to work with me?”

 

“I imagine they’re hoping for a partnership but the choice is ultimately yours, Buffy.  You’ll need to discuss this, of course, with William when you both get settled. And yes”-he held up his hand when he saw her beginning to speak again-“all of your bills at the studio are up to date as well as the mortgage.”

 

“Best non-manager ever.”  Buffy grinned. “Thank you for watching our backs.”

 

“To that end…” Giles pulled out another stack of papers from the briefcase.  “I made some inquiries with my contacts back in England as you requested and just heard back yesterday. It’s quite good news, actually.”

 

“Giles, you and suspense have an unhealthy codependency.  Out with it already.”

 

“I was able to get a copy of William’s former contract and there’s no doubt that he was still a minor when he signed.  I imagine his mother was too ill at that point to co-sign with him or offer much in the way of advice. Buffy, there’s a very good chance we’ll be able to recoup some of what Will’s paid but regardless, he won’t be paying one more red cent toward that debt.  They took advantage of him - his youth, his inexperience, his lack of support. I’m sure the company never thought they’d be called on their actions after this amount of time.”

 

“So it’s not too late?”

 

“No, we’re well within the statute of limitations.  I don’t think we’ll even need to take them to court but I have connections at the ready if we do.”  

 

The Buffys breathed out a sigh of relief.  “Best news ever. Gotta say, I never realized how much asking for help is always of the good.”

 

“For many reasons, my dear.”  Giles took off his glasses. “Although, I’m rather ashamed of myself.  As his teacher, I should’ve taken a greater interest in Will’s background and his reluctance to share it.  I admit I assumed the worst. I should’ve remembered that sometimes those who need help and love the most ask for it in the most unloving of ways.”

 

“You’re gonna totally make his day - plus make him super embarrassed and uncomfortable, so just roll with it when you tell him and he wigs.”

 

“Oh.” Giles continued to clean his glasses.  “I wasn’t planning on…I thought you would rather do the honors of…”

 

“Giles, he’s in my life for good.  You need to have your own relationship with him.  You don’t have to be best buds but I can’t be the go-between.  If you love me, you have to at least tolerate him.”

 

“I suppose I can do that.” Giles met her eyes and readjusted his glasses.  “For my unadopted daughter.”

 

“See?  Look at how that just rolled right off your tongue.  Not awkward at all.”

 

“No, I suppose it isn’t.”  Giles laughed. “It certainly feels more honest than being your manager.”

 

“Even if a lot of the jobs are the same?”

 

“Well, you see that’s it, don’t you?”  He looked at her fondly. “That when you’re doing them for someone you love, they’re not jobs at all.”

 

She leaned into him.  “Love ya, Giles.”

 

“I love you, too, Buffy.  Very much.”

 

***

 

“Who knew little ole Asheville had all this?” Cordy had arrived later that afternoon and showed off the results of her visit to the city’s downtown with her many shopping bags.  “Viva Ash Vegas.”

 

“Let’s not go there,” Buffy Anne advised, popping one of the handmade chocolates her friend had bought her into her mouth.  “You good with staying one more day then?”

 

“Sure, my bosses are the easiest people to get along with ever.”  She smiled. “Do you know your new studio is booked solid next month?  What we lack in ambiance, we make up for in the fact that we’re not gonna rob a band blind to crank out a demo.”

 

“As long as you booked your own studio time.”  Buffy Anne glanced at her knowingly. “Cordelia, it’s not enough to have a website or play backup.  You’ve always been crazy talented. You need to get your own music out there.”

 

“I will, I will,” Cordy replied impatiently, with a wave of her hand.  “You realize that I’ll be snapped up like hotcakes and I won’t be able to work for you nearly as much.”  Her voice was strong and teasing but her eyes looked fearful.

 

“I’m counting on it,” Buffy Anne told her with a smile.  “So count on us being there for you every step of the way.”

 

***

 

Her bags were packed.  The center had a celebration planned for the beautiful sunny summer afternoon in the mountains, punch and cake and a cookout where all the patients got to mingle with each other and their families before returning to their lives and continuing out-patient treatment.  When the counselors asked her to perform as part of the entertainment, she quickly agreed with the stipulation that it wouldn’t all necessarily be her music and that she’d really prefer to duet with her partner. They’d readily agreed, of course - they weren’t a music label, after all.  Whether Will was on board, though, remained a mystery.

 

Buffy Anne brushed back her wavy brown hair, its glossy healthiness tumbling down her shoulders and her face bright with only a hint of blush and a dab of lip gloss.  Her tan had gotten darker since she’d been in Asheville and without a continual IV drip of alcohol, her body felt less sluggish and more light than she remembered in many months.  She’d put on a white tank-top under a pair of denim overall shorts with a beaten pair of pink tennis sneakers. The Slayer watched her host with fondness at how very different this face was compared to the first time she’d seen Buffy Anne’s reflection.

 

“Slayer, I know I said I’d never let you go but…” Buffy Anne glanced at her own eyes in the mirror.  “I think I gotta.”

 

The Slayer had been wondering about that, if she were impeding Buffy Anne’s recovery or if she hadn’t leapt yet simply because the young singer needed to find the strength to release her.

 

“I mean,” Buffy Anne continued.  “You’ve got places to be, too, right?  You gotta help another Buffy next?”

 

“I think that’s the plan.”

 

“And then?  Heaven? Or home?”

 

“Good question.  I’ll get back to you.”

 

Buffy Anne grinned.  “You do that. God, I wish you could.  I wish I could know everything that ends up happening with you.  I’ll tell you what, though. I prayed for you before. I can definitely do it again.  Not for you to come back here”-she quickly assured-“but for you. That everything works out.  That you’re loved. Oh, Slayer, let yourself be loved, okay? You’re worth it and I promise it’s worth living for.  I know that now. Even if it’s love like you never expected.”

 

“Like I never expected, huh,” the Slayer choked, trying for an upbeat tone and failing miserably.  “You were pretty unexpected. In the best way.”

 

“So were you, Slayer.  So’s Spike. And because it’s all love, it’s all good, I swear.  I love you, Buffy Summers.”

 

“I love you, too.”

 

Hesitating for only a moment, she blew a kiss to her reflection before grabbing her luggage and leaving her cabin for the last time.

  
  


***

 

“God, Slayer, there he is!” Buffy Anne whispered in delight.  The Slayer felt her host body thrum with the excitement of seeing the man she loved for the first time in many days.  “Wow, look at him. He doesn’t really look like Will anymore but he doesn’t exactly look like Spike, either, with his hair a little shorter and a lot more blonde.  But it’s still curly and man, he’s still gorgeous.”

 

“And he still loves you.  Look, here he comes.”

 

They both rushed to meet each other and then held back shyly, just inches away from touching.

 

“Hi,” Will mumbled with a smile, so sweet and unsure and achingly hopeful.

 

“Hi,” she greeted him back, her hands twisting behind her back so they wouldn’t turn traitor and rip his clothes off in public.  “You look… really good.”

 

“Thanks.  You do - you look amazing.”

 

“You’re, um, abandoning the black?  I mean, blue jeans and a royal blue muscle shirt that just so happens to bring out your eyes like, whoa?  Not exactly part of the Will Pratt standard uniform.”

 

He scratched the back of his head nervously, sending his short curls into disarray.  “Rather done with uniforms. This, uh, this felt right. To see you.”

 

“It looks very right to me.”

 

“Buffy…”

 

Without another word, the two sort of threw themselves against each other.  Will picked up her small body as though she weighed nothing and pulled her to him with such force, the Slayer wondered how they could ever let go.  After what seemed like many minutes, he finally put her back on the ground and smoothed the hair from her face with his strong, rough palms.

 

“A year,” he intoned.

 

“Right?” She wrinkled her nose.  “I got told the same thing.”

 

“Annie’s a peach, no doubt, but…” He stared at her helplessly.   “I can’t not kiss you for a year, Buffy. Then again, I can’t impede your recovery, not for a tick.  Or mine for that matter.”

 

“I know.”  The girl’s stomach plummeted.   “So what do we do?  

 

Smiling, he reached down to clasp her hand in his - that old gesture of protection and care that now seemed to mean so much more.  

 

“We go to our home together.  We figure it out. And in the meantime…” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles.  “We sing.”

 

***

 

“Okay, Boss 1 and Boss 2.  What are we playing?” Cordy asked, joining them with her fiddle on the patio area cleared to be a stage as she looked over their shoulders at the sheet music they held.   “Oh my God, are you serious?”

 

Buffy Anne glanced back at her.  “It’s one of our favorite songs.”

 

“It’s the first song we ever sang together back at Helmont,” Will added.

 

“Uh-huh.”  Cordy rolled her eyes.  “Two drunks in recovery singing an old drinking song for their fellow patients in rehab.  You two do have a flair for the ironic, don’tcha?”

 

In the audience of onlookers - kids playing in the grass, babies crawling on picnic blankets, husbands holding hands with their wives - Buffy found her own Giles grinning from his borrowed beach chair and she gave him a thumb’s up.

 

“So, you’re not going to accompany us?” Buffy Anne challenged.  

 

Cordy adjusted her fiddle under her chin.  “I never said that.”

 

_Of all the money that e'er I had_

_I've spent it in good company_

_And all the harm that e'er I've done_

_Alas it was to none but me_

_And all I've done for want of wit_

_To memory now I can't recall_

_So fill to me the parting glass_

_Good night and joy be with you all_

 

_Of all the comrades that e'er I had_

_They are sorry for my going away_

_And all the sweethearts that e'er I had_

_They would wish me one more day to stay_

_But since it falls unto my lot_

_That I should rise and you should not_

_I'll gently rise and I'll softly call_

_Good night and joy be with you all_

 

_A man may drink and not be drunk_

_A man may fight and not be slain_

_A man may court a pretty girl_

_And perhaps be welcomed back again_

_But since it has so ought to be_

_By a time to rise and a time to fall_

_Come fill to me the parting glass_

_Good night and joy be with you all_

_Good night and joy be with you all_

 

Their audience kept cheering even after the couple stopped singing and Cordelia fiddled the last few bars of her solo.  Buffy had never sounded better than she did with Will and certainly had never felt better about performing than with him by her side.  His hands that eased his guitar over his head and then took hers were not shaking and instead of reaching for the cigarette tucked behind his ear, he reached for her.

 

“I love you,” he whispered into her hair.  “What’s a year anyhow, when we get the rest of our lives?”

 

“I love you, too,” she replied, wiping her wet eyes on his shoulder.  “We’ll just take it one day at a time.”

 

For a moment, the Slayer imagined that she could feel arms around her that weren’t so warm but were still strong, arms that could belong to her.  _Let yourself be loved_.  For a Slayer supposedly so full of love, why was that so difficult?

 

 _A time to rise and a time to fall_.  Buffy didn’t know what it was her time for anymore.

 

Buffy Anne lifted her head from Will’s chest and their eyes locked.

 

“This okay?” he whispered.  His calloused fingers had come up to hold her face, stroking her cheeks as though he couldn’t believe his good fortune at finding his greatest treasure right in his hands.

 

Internally, Buffy Anne asked the Slayer the same question and with only a pause, both Buffys nodded their acquiescence and leaned into his touch.

 

Moving with infinite tenderness and maddening patience, he eased his warm, strong body against her.  His breath hitched in a gasp of need before he pressed his lips to hers in the sweetest promise of his enduring love.  It was only a thrilling preview of what their life together would hold.

  
With a final _God bless_ from Buffy Anne echoing in her mind, the Slayer felt her whole consciousness shift, roll, and finally leap back out into the unknown.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say that struggles with drugs and alcohol, while fictionalized here, are very real and are often a lifelong struggle. I've seen the sad side of recovery when it doesn't work out so I wanted to make a happy ending here, but I don't want to trivialize the seriousness of addiction in any way. If any part of this story has hit home for you or you know someone who is struggling and have no idea where to begin, please reach out. The Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA) is one place to start. SAMHSA’s National Helpline is 1-800-662-HELP (4357) and "is a confidential, free, 24-hour-a-day, 365-day-a-year, information service, in English and Spanish, for individuals and family members facing mental and/or substance use disorders. This service provides referrals to local treatment facilities, support groups, and community-based organizations. Callers can also order free publications and other information." 
> 
> Oh, if you're ever in Asheville NC, please visit French Broad Chocolates. Best handmade candy EVER. Technically, they weren't around in 2001 but they should've been.
> 
> Love y'all!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Monty Python boys would say, "now for something completely different." It's only a brief interlude between worlds and you'll get to meet Buffy #3 next (she's 99% written and beta'd and we're gonna be with her for a while so buckle up kids, Mama Kats is putting the hammer down!)

Day 112. Sunnydale, California.

 

Striding down the silent hall, the familiar dank stink of the hospital hit Spike’s nose and his stomach lurched with the sick inevitability of it.  He’d still not gotten used to it, this smell that had never bothered him before, that now permeated his clothes worse than cigarette smoke. He actually smoked more in protest after he’d leave, trying to mask it.  He’d give anything not to surround himself with it. But he wouldn’t ever not be here. Not until…well, until something changed.

“Hello, honey,” Spike announced softly when he opened the hospital room door.  “I’m home.”

Not really home, but he and the Bit had done their best to approximate.  Split right down the middle the Scoobies were about whether Buffy should remain at hospital or be moved home after the first month.  Glinda went neutral; Anya, Spike, and Dawn said home; Xander, Giles, and Willow voted that she should stay. Bloody obvious who’d won and lost that battle. Spike found it a crap compromise that they’d reached. While this room had near copies of her bedspread, curtains, and pillows, nothing could hide the tangle of tubes that kept Buffy fed, hydrated, and catheterized.  

On the wall across from him, a wall-mounted TV droned informercials a bar above mute.

“Get this blasted thing off,” he muttered and snatched the remote off the rolling table over her.  Once the TV died, he moved the table back to the wall and then walked over to the small stereo boom box on the windowsill shelf to flip through the cases of CDs Tara had left.  

The witch had some halfway decent taste in music and a penchant for homemade mixes.  She’d left him a new one with songs that wouldn’t make his ears bleed and he started it playing at a low but comforting volume.

He cursed the lights next.  Someone had mucked up his system.  How many times did he have to tell them that she needed sunlight during the day and then the nighttime lighting around her bed after dusk?  No garish overheads, for fuck’s sake. Next time he wouldn’t be so friendly about reminding them.

Still, he could’ve found worse places for a vigil.  Kicking his boots under her bed and shrugging his duster off onto the rolling table, he opened the small portable cooler in the corner then pulled out a blood bag.  He snipped off a corner with the scissors left on the table and poured the contents into a mug before rejoining what had become his station. He settled in to the big black faux leather “easy” chair that had been anything but.

They’d moved her earlier; they had to. The staff explained how they needed to sponge bathe her and flip her frequently to prevent bedsores.  He’d never been around when they’d done it but he expected it must be a slap-dash affair and knew when it happened because her hair would always be askew after, like tonight.  Frowning, he got up and grabbed the hairbrush that lay next to a plush pig on the right bedside table. With an awkward hand, he carefully brushed out the waves that had gotten mussed and settled them back gently against her face and shoulders.  

“There,” he grunted in satisfaction.  “That looks more how you’d like it.” Her hair had darkened in these weeks without sun and the benefit of a salon visit.  Spike wondered if the blonde would fade altogether.

“Niblet did well on the math test,” he said and walked back to the false comfort of his chair.  “Anya’s gonna have her as the Magic Box accountant before all’s said and done, but it’s only improving her scores.  She nearly bit it on that research paper but pulled it off in the end. No, I bloody well did not write it for her. Did make her revise it three times.  Her handwriting’s for shit, so I told Red to set her up on the laptop and we’ll teach her how to type as she should.”

He sipped from the mug and couldn’t help making a face at the barely room temperature blood.  It couldn’t be helped. There was no point having a room with a microwave when the patient couldn’t even open her eyes.

“The history project’s gonna be a bugger - which it wouldn’t have to be if she had any interest in any of the decades I’ve been around.  Not our Bit. She wants to do Egypt. ‘Course she does, can’t be simple. I’ll sneak her into the museum after hours this weekend and let her play archeologist to her heart’s content.  Please, it’ll be fine,” he scoffed as though Buffy were scolding him. He gulped from the mug. “Don’t worry, I’ll be with her the whole time. Of course I’m not training her!” He paused.  “Yet. Now don’t be that way. She needs to be able to protect herself and no, not like a Slayer. Like the strong Bit she is. I will take it slow. I’d never put her in harm’s way. You know that.”

Spike drained the mug and leaned back into the chair.  He closed his eyes and pinched the skin between his brows.  If he concentrated very hard, he could almost imagine that he and Buffy were having the most normal conversations in the world about patrolling and household tasks and Dawn.  Especially Dawn. One of the night nurses who didn’t blanch every time she saw him said that Buffy could likely hear voices and emphasized the importance of talking to her to keep her connected to the world they so desperately wanted her back in.

“Haven’t shut up since, have I, Slayer?” he muttered.  “Dunno what they do for you when they kick me out but while I’m here you can think o’ me as your own personal news ticker on Spike TV - ‘get more action.’  I ain’t gonna give up one chance that you can hear me.”

Spike sat up and considered the distance between himself and her bedside.  Every night he’d move the chair close and every day it would be stubbornly back in the damn corner again.  On some level he knew that the staff did it to move more easily around her bed but he couldn’t help taking it as a passive aggressive snub.  He clenched his teeth and hissed out his frustration, then resolutely moved the chair back to where it belonged.

He reached over to her other bedside table and plucked a worn volume from the top of the stack he’d left there.  He’d learned to gauge her interest in their reading material by her heartbeat. Some of the books from Giles he’d tried had left her blood near sluggish and that’s when he’d taken over the selections.  When he’d started these strange little volumes, her pulse had ever so slightly quickened with curiosity.

“Right.  When we last left our Joan, she and her Pere Fronte were starting a bit of a row.”  He opened and began to read aloud:  
  


“Then she finished with a blast at that idea that fairy kinsmen of the Fiend ought to be shunned and denied human sympathy and friendship because salvation was barred against them. She said that for that very reason people ought to pity them, and do every humane and loving thing they could to make them forget the hard fate that had been put upon them by accident of birth and no fault of their own.” 

‘“Poor little creatures!” she said. “What can a person’s heart be made of that can pity a Christian’s child and yet can’t pity a devil’s child, that a thousand times more needs it!”’  
  


Spike closed the book on his lap and gazed at her.

“Is that what I am, love?  A devil’s child? Problem is, I don’t want your damn pity.  I want your love.” He put the book down next to him on the chair and leaned over her.  “‘Course, I’d take your roundhouse kick to the skull if it meant you were back with us.”  He stared at her sleeping face and waited, but only saw the usual steady rise and fall of her breathing as a response. 

His eyes wandered to her bedside and his lips hitched up in a faint grin.  Someone had expected him. For while the bedrail remained up on her left side, the one on her right had been put down.  This provided a clear path for him to lay his head next to her hip where he could imagine her resting fingers were stroking his hair.  Spike closed his eyes and let the fantasy have its way with him. Of all the fantasies he’d ever had about her, this one felt both the most real and the most dangerous.

Only here could he break down.  He would never let them see how much he missed her - wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of his pain.  Although Tara had caught him once and offered him a pat on his shoulder before he bolted in embarrassment. He didn’t need their derision.  Plus, it had scared Dawn when she saw how hard he had cried at the tower - almost as much as seeing her sister in a barely breathing heap at the bottom of it.  He let Dawn cry instead. She cried enough for the both of them.

Spike looked over at the wall across from him and his watery eyes took in the tableau Dawn had created.  He’d warned her if she brought in any more art they’d have to start using the ceiling, but it hadn’t stopped her yet.  She’d played tourist in her own town and blown up her snapshots into Sunnydale travel posters of the beach, the college campus, and the downtown.  They adorned the walls along with old Polaroids of their lives in Los Angeles. She’d added many of her mother’s favorite watercolors that had never made it into permanent frames and a couple of tribal masks for good measure.  Then she had gone through each room of the house and pulled every image of family and friend that hadn’t been nailed down. She found places for them here, too.  

Her face.  Over and under and across and above and below.  Embracing him from all sides yet never touching him.  Buffy.  

How could he ever exist without her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spike’s reading from Mark Twain’s “Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Buffy World #3 friends, in which we're pretty solidly in R-rating territory thanks to a lot of colorful language and um, some figurative language as well. We will visit NC-17 land in this fic - but not yet.

_Bang!_

The sound of what had to be a gunshot rang in Buffy’s ears.

“Buffy! What the hell are you doing over there? Buffy? Buffy!”

Her ears, which were still fuzzy from the echo of the blast, were pierced by the blip of a siren; then she heard the sound of feet pounding on pavement toward her. Slowly, she became aware of herself flat on her stomach on top of a prone woman on asphalt.

“Ohhh, boy,” she heard herself moan.

The Slayer almost expected to see a pool of blood rising up on the pavement around the body beneath her but instead she felt the girl wriggle under her weight and turn her head to give her a look only one person in her life could master.

“Jeez, B. Hero complex much?”

Faith.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Buffy heard herself say, her voice dipping deep with embarrassment. “Leapt on instinct.”

“I get it. But you went blind. You know better. Plus, you’re wearing no vest.”

“With the bullets we got out there now,” a familiar male voice said grimly. “Vest won’t matter. Nice save anyway, Killer.”

God, it was _Riley_ dressed in full black SWAT-style gear standing over her and blocking the sun. Or rather, Riley-not-Riley. This Riley Finn had much shorter hair, almost in a military cut, a hard jaw lined with brownish stubble and a thin scar running down his left cheek. Plus, he’d called her “Killer,” just like he had in her awful dream with the First Slayer last year. While Buffy the Slayer wanted to stare at him in the kind of sick awe reserved for bad accidents, Buffy the police officer didn’t even want to glance in his direction.

“It’s Slayer, fuckwit, not Killer,” Faith groaned, rolling out from under Buffy to get to her feet.

“Not much difference,” Riley snorted.

And at that, the woman’s body flared with a seething flash of anger. No, more than anger. Really intense dislike. Hate, actually - the kind that could only be achieved by being deeply hurt. Whatever this Riley had done to this Buffy, it met (if not exceeded) what had occurred in the Slayer’s own life.

“Green is a rotten shade on you, Finn. Hey, maybe you buy that cute little roving reporter a few martinis and she might make you a cover story someday. In the meantime, shut the fuck up. Come on, B.” Faith held out her hand. “We gotta hustle before briefing. Your C.I. will be here at 1100.” Buffy allowed Faith to pull her to standing.

The Slayer glanced around at the uniformed officers walking away from what appeared to be a shaded parking lot and toward the back of a white marble, glass, and chrome building about five hundred feet ahead of them. Clearly, the group of them had been involved in some kind of training exercise that had now ended, thanks to her body’s unsanctioned jump in front of Faith.

“That shot woulda meant your ass out on the street, you know,” Faith told her.

This Buffy tossed her long blonde ponytail back, the picture of blithe unworry. “Good thing we’re not out on the street then.”

“You get your bell rung?”

“But good,” Buffy grunted. “I’m fine. Just out of practice.”

“No doubt. You were packin’ up to sip mai tais or teach criminal justice 101 or some shit and you get dragged back to this mouth of hell. Still, we appreciate it.”

“He’s a pain in the ass.” Buffy sighed. “No reason he should be your pain in the ass.”

The Slayer would’ve given anything to read the damn woman’s mind at this point, because whoever this “pain in the ass” happened to be, he struck a chord so strong in this body that the Slayer had to take an imaginary seat to sort out all the emotions rippling under this lady’s skin. She wanted to see him. She didn’t want to see him. She was fairly aching with curiosity about him. And aching - for him, hating herself for doing it all the while.

They entered the back of the building the Slayer now recognized as a police station. The blast of AC that hit her was a shock from the humid air outside and Buffy’s sweaty skin immediately turned to goosebumps. Shivering, she wound her way down a hall and into the women’s locker room, approached a locker, and began stripping out of her grey t-shirt and navy blue track pants. On the way to the shower, the Slayer caught of glimpse of her host body in the mirror: long, straight lanky blonde hair and lanky pale body as well, tattooed with old scars (one in the shape of a bullet hole on her right shoulder, a larger one on her right thigh; then a myriad of divots like shrapnel across her lower back, plus a good assortment of what could’ve been stab wounds and knife slices across her left arm and flank).

The burning hot water of the shower hit her like a very welcome balm to her tired and battered self. While this Buffy shampooed her hair and shaved her legs, the Slayer defaulted to observation mode since she had no way of accessing the thoughts of her host. As she watched the woman quickly sponge herself over, the Slayer couldn’t help but think of Buffy Anne’s assessment of young Will Pratt when he performed as Spike: “nothing but muscle and pure grit.” Her biceps, shoulders, and calves were ridiculously well-toned but she’d become so thin that her breasts were more of an afterthought.

_Don’t forget the conditioner_ , the Slayer advised and long minutes passed before her silent host finally grabbed the bottle of coconut cream rinse on the shower shelf and ran it through her long wet strands.

It was a test and the Slayer’s heart sank at the failure. This Buffy seemed to have no real connection to the Slayer at all - didn’t seem to recognize a strange consciousness in her noggin or want to have anything to do with it if she did.

Out of the shower, she dried her hair and left it long and straight with only one clip in the back to keep the tendrils at her temples out of her face. She dressed in a simple beige blouse, khaki dress pants, brown crocodile belt, and matching ankle boots. She clipped a badge to her waistband and set to the task of applying makeup.

This, Buffy realized, is what she had expected of all the Buffys but had finally come to fruition in the body of this - she was able to have the woman she occupied flash the badge so she could read it - detective: incomplete body autonomy, no real communication, with a sort of Plexiglass barrier between her own consciousness and the one of the Buffy she occupied. Now that she had this experience, however, she wondered what on earth she could be expected to do here or how she could ever incite any kind of change. It was one thing to be denied access to the detective. How could she be the helpful voice in this woman’s head when the lady refused to access the Slayer?

Buffy sat behind some psychic prison visiting room screen or cuffed in the back of Detective Summers’ mental cruiser, able to see, hear, feel, smell, and taste but with no rights to this body. _This lady’s the law and, as the song goes, if I fight the law the law will win. Just like anyone going up against me. Yeah, exactly like me. Hey, there you are!_ The Slayer couldn’t help but smile. She felt so comfortable with this carefully constructed Buffy who held herself up to impossible standards, impeccable presence, and unshakeable poise in fighting the grim, good fight. _Home sweet control freak._ Now that she occupied it rather than orchestrated it, she realized how hard it felt to maintain this facade. Exhausting really. No wonder she’d been ready to die. This Buffy had to be - _hi crows feet_ \- at least in her late thirties. _Please don’t have a death wish._ Then again, this Buffy had given in, so to speak, to her wish by seeking to retire - way early from the force, she guessed. Someone had resurrected her, some “pain in the ass” that caused such conflicted emotions within her.

No. No. No. Not another one. Not another Spike. It couldn’t be. But really, who else in a Buffy world would be a pain in the ass? At least he was a C.I. Sitting with Joyce through many episodes of Law & Order had taught her at least what that meant: criminal informant - with the emphasis on criminal. _Well, thank God._  If he had to be there, at least she’d finally get a Spike that made sense.

Right outside of the locker room, a large article from the front page of some newspaper called the _Valle del Sol Press Weekend Edition_ had been framed and mounted on the wall.

“Crime Slayers,” the headline read and Buffy was able to encourage her borrowed body to linger at it long enough so she could glance it over. The photo featured Detective Buffy in her beige and Faith in all black, made up to look more like models than cops. The article highlighted some of the accomplishments of the partners’ careers, including how together they had made a serious dent in the infestation of organized crime. It went on to explain how Faith Lehane would become the next captain of the Valle del Sol Police Department while Detective Summers would retire from police work altogether.

Buffy’s eyes lit on a quote in the middle of the page from the detective: “When organized crime comes to a town like ours, it isn’t enough to stop it. You need to exterminate it. Slay it.” At that, she could feel her host body prickle as though she’d been thrust into an unwelcome spotlight. “So much for off the record,” she muttered under her breath. Yet seeing the two lady officers together filled the detective with a warm nostalgia. Apparently, the partners had been good to and for each other. After a few moments, she moved away from the article and around a corner to a conference room bathed in light from the windows along the wall. She stalked over and adjusted the blinds so that the sun only half-way peeked through and, gradually, the room filled with uniformed and plainclothes police officers.

Faith took the podium at the front of the room wearing almost a mirror outfit of Buffy’s: silk business shirt in navy blue open at the throat, grey dress trousers instead of khaki, black crocodile pumps and belt instead of brown. Slayer light and Slayer dark, at least wardrobe-wise.

She cleared her throat. “Okay, squad, pipe down. We got a lot to cover. First things first, Detective Summers is back to save our sorry asses and jump back in the fray with her old C.I. So, buy Summers a drink. She’ll need it.” Faith paused while the room of officers rose to their feet and applauded the still sitting Buffy, whose body burned with embarrassment. Faith looked out into the room, her older face drawn, tight, and deadly serious.

“I see lots of new faces here and we all know why. Our house has been hit hard in the last month. Eight cops in the ground. Not how I wanted my first year as captain to go. For you rookies who don’t know how we got here, let me sum up: five years ago, the Aurelius Family ran this town with gambling, girls, and drugs - the worst one of all being a little something you might remember as Vamp: kissing cousin to heroin, laced with morphine, and topped with a dust of coke just to make things extra addictive and deadly. Kept us busy until…” Faith glanced at Buffy. “…we got a break. Detective Summers hauled in who we thought was just a low-level gangster on a minor weapons charge. Turned out, he was Spike. AKA William the Bloody, AKA Bill Pratt, AKA the fifth man from the top of the Aurelius gang.”

Inwardly, the Slayer’s stomach began to twist. Too many sick echoes from her own world existed here: a plague of a drug called Vamp. A gangster named, of course, Spike. A murderous bunch of thugs from an Aurelius family. Immediately, she knew who else belonged to this gang - and not a one of them she wanted to see again.

“Thanks to our detective,” Faith had continued. “Spike’s been working for us ever since. Got Vamp off the streets, plus got most of their minions locked up and their number three with a bullet in the brainpan. Their number four o’d and unfortunately, the top two dirtbags went into the wind. Until now. Spike’s allegedly got intel on their next moves. We meet with him today and this op could mean the end of organized crime in our town as we know it.”

The Slayer felt the detective’s body absolutely seize at that. The end to what she and Faith had obviously been fighting against for years, possibly right at their fingertips, and the key to it being none other than a Spike. Like the emotions Buffy had already felt in this body, she could tell that the detective both wanted it and dreaded it. It would mean a saga of crime would come to a close, a cop’s dream come true. It would also mean the end of any professional relationship with Spike. His usefulness to her as it was would be over.

“Okay, questions?” Faith asked. “Yeah, Finn.”

“Cap, how can we trust Spike? How do we know he’s not going to start the whole operation over again?”

“Because there’s not much of an operation left. Without Vamp, they lost 90% of their revenue stream. Shutting down the drugs led to shutting down the prostitution and the racketeering. All that’s left is getting them behind bars where they belong. Rusty?”

An older, lanky cop sitting in the back spoke next. “Captain Lehane, do you think there’s any link to noise about the Aurelius Family being responsible for the Dusters?”

The whole room went silent. Faith and Buffy exchanged glances. The Slayer could tell some serious pow-wow between the two cops had transpired about this very subject but whatever it was, she could lay money that a “duster” had nothing to do with Spike’s coat.

“Officer, I can’t comment on that at this time.” Faith looked down at her podium.

Riley jumped to his feet. “You’re saying the Aurelius Family is behind the Dusters? They’re making the bullets that are tearing through every tactical protection we have?”

Detective Buffy whipped around in her chair, fuming at the challenge this Riley posed to her captain. “Did you hear the woman say she couldn’t fucking comment? Get a grip.”

“He’s your C.I. Like you wouldn’t know?” Riley sneered.

“I haven’t seen the jerk in months! I’m as in the dark as you,” Buffy shot back.

“Really doubt that,” Riley muttered with a glower as he sat back down.

Faith held up her hand. “I’ll be able to share more after we meet with Pratt today. Off the record? Yeah, I think there’s probably a connection to the new bullets we’re seeing and the gang. On the record, though, it’s business as usual until we know different. Still wear your vests, bring backup, no twitchy trigger fingers, either. Stay cool out there. Dismissed.”

Buffy leapt up from her seat in the room and stalked down the hall to a tiny office, her body itching with the need to get away from the crowd of officers with their inquisitive eyes and their unspoken questions. She sat at an immaculately clear desk in shiny cherry wood and pulled a set of folders from the organizer resting on the corner that were clamped together with a binder clip. “Aurelius” said the post-it note stuck on the top-most file. The detective flipped open the first one.

Seeing the name “Nest, Heinrich J.” made the Slayer gasp. Yes, she should’ve been prepared for what this world held, given that the name of the gang that bedeviled this town shared the family name of the vampire cult from the Hellmouth. But seeing the real name of the Master again - the first vampire who’d ever bit her and brought her to her first death - not to mention a photo of what the monster would’ve looked like as a human, made her nerves spark like they hadn’t since well after she’d pulverized his bones. _Still a monster, though_ , she realized grimly, her eyes running down a list of his charges: rape; assault; murder; the manufacture, sale, and distribution of narcotics; racketeering; pimping and pandering; the illegal possession, transportation and distribution of firearms. So many of the felonies on the list had been “dismissed due to lack of evidence, “no witness,” or “settled out of court,” the Slayer noticed with disgust. In this incarnation of the Master in a gritty police photo, Heinrich Nest appeared to be staring down the barrel of at least sixty, his old eyes snake-like and his expression cruelly unrepentant. Perhaps the detective felt a similar sense of revulsion because, together, the Buffys shuddered. _And this is a human_ , she thought with contempt, _supposedly with a soul_. The Slayer couldn’t believe this excuse for a man had anything close.

She’d heard the name “Darla” in Faith’s briefing and so it wasn’t a huge surprise to see the next file, “Nest, Darla K.,” although the surname did raise her mental eyebrows. Darla and Heinrich were married - exact date unknown but suspected to be common-law only. Her police photo looked scarcely different from the Darla the Slayer remembered from Sunnydale, with the same blonde hair and vigilant eyes, the same expression of cool, smug superiority. Her rap sheet read similarly as her husband’s with charges of extortion and racketeering, pimping and pandering, murder and assault, but she was only suspected of narcotics and firearms charges. Darla had actually done time whereas her Master had done precious little, and Darla had been released for “good behavior.” _Still shining them on, I see_ , the Slayer thought bitterly, thinking of all the victims the vampire Darla had likely drained because she’d snowed them with her false innocence. The Slayer couldn’t imagine a world where Darla would ever be good, especially one in which she was doling out police assault ammunition.

The next file labeled “Nest, A.A.” meant nothing to the Slayer until the detective opened it to reveal a black and white police photo of a much older and grizzlier Angel - Heinrich’s younger brother. She couldn’t read through all his aliases fast enough: Liam Angelus, Angelus Aurelius, and Angel Nest were only a few. He had a duplicate rap sheet to his sibling’s, with a final note informing the reader that he was deceased thanks to a single GSW to the head. So he was the number three of the Aurelius clan. The Slayer actually breathed a sigh of relief that she wouldn’t have to see any version of Angel here - it would be too much like reliving Angelus (especially since so many of their crimes were the same).

_Dru must be here somewhere_ , the Slayer thought grimly and the detective pulled out the fourth file for “Keeble, Drusilla S.” Here, she was Darla’s sister and something about that made the Slayer a little more nauseous. She could so easily see how Angel and the Master could’ve seduced a young Darla and Dru - even passed them back and forth for their sick amusement. She’d always thought of the Aurelius clan as being borderline incestuous, and nothing about this family did anything to change her mind. While Dru had never been arrested and the photos appeared to be from reconnaissance only (one showing her in a lacy black cocktail dress at what appeared to be a crowded party on a boat), the notes listed suspicions of drug dealing and possession - with the last entry also reading “Deceased” from a drug overdose, a year previous.

Faith appeared at her door. “He’s here. You ready?”

The detective sighed and closed the file. Her body hummed with what the Slayer now recognized as standard issue in this body when it came to Spike: a mix of anxiety, foreboding, and a tingle of excitement.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

***

Faith escorted her down the hall to a room with a sign on the door identifying it as “Interrogation Room #1” and the Slayer steeled herself for who she knew must be waiting for her on the other side. The captain pushed the grey-painted door open and there, at a metal table with a microphone sitting in the middle, was this reality’s Spike, who immediately clicked the shutter of an expensive-looking digital SLR camera.

“Say cheese, Cap’n. Perfect. You’re art in motion, you are.”

“Shit, Spike, put that fuckin’ thing away,” Faith groused, entering the room and sitting across from him. “How’d they even let you in here with that?”

“Maybe because this fancy piece costs more than what you make in a month.” He paused and gazed at the door. “Well, well, well. There she is. Long time no see, love.”

Buffy stepped into the room to see that all-too-familiar face now leering at her.

Spike.

The only welcome part of this reality’s Spike was knowing that he was a criminal. No way that carefully crafted Detective Summers would let him get the drop on her. At last this dimension could provide the opportunity of a Buffy/Spike dynamic that the Slayer could recognize. Maybe the Slayer had to simply ride shotgun with this hard-as-nails Buffy long enough to get this Spike back behind bars again. Regardless, it seemed very far-fetched that a criminal and a detective would have anything but rancor for one another.

Well, maybe that wasn’t the only good part because, once again, this human rendition of Spike looked amazing, this time with brown and blonde two-toned, slicked back hair and dressed in a charcoal grey silk suit with a stunning royal purple shirt open at his throat. He sounded spot-on to her own reality’s Spike, too, his voice dripping with hot insinuation. Hey, if she had to put up with him, at least she had decent eye candy for the experience.

“Retirement favors you, Detective,” he added while his piercing blue eyes ran all over her.

Eye candy, however, seemed to be only a fraction of how this Buffy saw her Spike, from the way her body had reacted. Her throat had tightened, a fine sheen of sweat had erupted on her temples, and almost instinctively, the taut muscles of her lower belly had clenched in need. “ _God help me_ ”-came a random thought from the detective, loud and extremely clear- “ _he turns me on_.” _Great_ , thought the Slayer, with an irritated roll of her eyes. _Allow me to help turn you off_. Except…

How this body felt about this Spike didn’t seem all that different from how Coach had felt when Mr. Pratt had reached in to kiss her. How Buffy Anne had felt when Will cupped her face and stroked her skin with his rough, nicotine-stained fingers. These ladies all shared the same patented Want for Spike aka William Pratt. The Slayer had come to know it well.

Of course, her own Spike could lay it on just as thick and, wow, could he get under her skin. Not two minutes in the room with this guy and the Slayer was reminded that Spike could frustrate her like no one else. She’d always taken it as a frustration of the spirit, as in, “I’m so annoyed by you I want to stake you.” But at hearing this Spike’s voice and feeling the longing that this body had for him, the Slayer suddenly realized that part of the reason she’d get so angry with Spike went much deeper. Why did it have to be _Spike_ who couldn’t help telling her how much she changed him and how much he loved her? Stupid, annoying vampire. With the same piercing eyes and the same liquid sex voice and the same way of undressing her with a look and _oh, my God_. The immediate realization walloped the Slayer worse than a blow in the cemetery ever had and stunned her just as much: _Spike turns_ me _on_.

Detective Summers’ frustration was hers. The same conflict, the same war between “he’s evil but he could be useful” battling it out in her brain. Except that’s not all it was. It was pure arousal - unwanted for sure. But arousal nonetheless.

At least the detective shared the Slayer’s struggle. Her body nearly vibrated with anger - at him for being who he was and for what he inspired in her; at herself - what she interpreted as her weakness for desiring him. And yet, she also flushed with the thrill of seeing him again. This Buffy had missed this Spike.

Throwing down the pile of case file folders and her leather-bound notepad she held with a bang on the table, she tried to avoid Spike’s intense gaze as she took her seat next to Faith.

Another random thought ran through the detective’s mind, loud enough once more for the Slayer to hear: “ _Don't think about the evil crime-spreeing fiend. Focus on anything but the evil crime-spreeing fiend_.”

“My retirement is temporarily suspended thanks to you, so don’t try my patience,” the detective bit out. “What do you got, Spike? You better make it worth my while.”

“Funny you should ask. I want”—he grinned—“to save the world. Or at least your lot’s hides.”

The detective rolled her eyes. “No one has time for this, William. Spill.”

“Right.” His lip curled when he saw she was all business. “So the last of my old gang that thanks to me, you rustled up nearly all of, has decided to branch out from girls and drugs.”

“You mean Darla’s resurfaced?” Faith asked sharply.

“That and she’s gone high tech where the big money and the big hurt both reside.” He paused. “Heard there’s a nasty bit of ammunition out there on the streets makin’ it bloody difficult for a cop to come home alive.”

Buffy frowned. “The Dusters.”

“Yeah. Cute name, eh? Cop Dusters? D. always did have a sick sense of humor.”

“You’re saying she’s started manufacturing them,” Buffy said.

“Hell no. Dumb fucking bitch doesn’t know enough about metallurgy to tell the difference between copper and steel. What she’s done is kill off the original owners and take over the operation - the sale and the distribution. It’s like Vamp all over again, only instead of dealing drugs, she’s dealing death in the form of cop-killing bullets.”

Buffy smirked tightly. “And you think you can shut her down.”

“She thinks I’m on the lam. Thanks to you, pet, she watched me break away from police custody and disappear - never guessing for a tick that I’ve been in your pocket. If I track her down, she’ll cut me in to her latest score.”

“I don’t like it,” Buffy said immediately, her voice laced with worry. “Too risky.”

Spike barely winked. “No risk, no reward, love.”

“What do you want out of this?” Faith asked.

“To end the legacy. You get Darla, you get her slimy hubby the Master, and we can close the book on this little chapter of organized crime known as the Aurelius Family. As for me...” He smirked. “I can go legit. Finally.”

Faith looked surprised. “How do you plan on doing that?”

“A little something called WITSEC.”

Faith spit out a laugh. “Screw that. You’d be the worst abuser of the witness protection program since Henry fucking Hill. No way could you go legit, Spike. It ain’t in your nature.”

“Maybe not before but we’ve been through this, haven’t we? Things have changed. Got a taste for something other than bein’ some evil crime lord.” He stared at Buffy and curled his tongue behind his teeth.

The Slayer felt her eyes narrow in suspicion. Even in reluctant hope. “And what happens when, once again, your tastes change?”

“Oh, I’d need to be closely monitored,” he replied, widening his blue eyes with faux innocence. “I’ve told you how you’ve missed your calling, Slayer. You’d look dead sexy in a U.S. Marshals’ kit.”

“Enough,” Detective Buffy snapped. “How do we know you can get real intel on Darla?”

“When I wear a wire to my first meet with her in…” He checked his watch. “Two days.”

“What the fuck?” Faith sputtered. “You already scheduled a meet with her?”

Spike looked annoyed. “Well, yeah. If you’re not gonna hire me back, I still gotta eat.”

Buffy’s mouth dropped open in disbelief, something the Slayer related to all too well from negotiations with her own Spike. “So this is, ‘either take me up on my offer to end the Aurelius gang or watch as I go back and make happy crime with the Aurelius gang.’”

“Don’t understand why your knickers are in such a twist.” Spike shrugged. “Either way, you’ll know where I am.”

“How the hell do you expect us to trust you?” Buffy exclaimed.

“Something called my word, pet. When I say I’m working with you, I’m with you. Already proved that, didn’t I?” he challenged, with a cocked eyebrow. “I don’t want to be a criminal anymore. I want to go straight, but it has to be via the WITSEC route. Only way I can get on m’ feet.”

“You should be in prison,” Faith glowered. “Not as fake Johnny fucking Doe in hiding and mowing his lawn in suburbia.”

“Your last captain didn’t think so. Thought I could dismantle most of the organized crime in this town with one hand tied behind m’ back and he wasn’t far off,” Spike answered airily. “That should earn me a speck of time served for my humanitarian efforts, don’t you think? Vamp now being a faint memory from the scourge on the streets that it used to be.”

“You’re a killer, Spike,” Buffy hissed through her teeth. “You’re a wanton, degenerate gangster and I should’ve put you away years ago.”

Spike leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chest as though she’d warmed his heart. “Flattery aside, every one of the blokes I’ve offed had it coming, love. Did you and the community a right favor by cleaning up those little messes.”

“What about all the kids you killed thanks to putting Vamp in their hands, up their noses, and in their veins?” Faith shot back.

Spike’s cocky expression faded into pain. “Well, that’s what my penance is for, innit. Can never take that back. Way I was with the drug trade, figured there was death, glory and sod all else. I was young. I hadn’t seen the consequences,” he added softly.

“No, that’s our job,” Buffy reminded him bitterly. “We get to clean up those messes - your unintended consequences.”

Spike’s palm crashed down on the table in sudden anger. “My girl died from Vamp, right? So sod off. Why else would I ever make deals with cops otherwise?”

Faith shrugged. “Because you don’t have a death wish and you’re opportunistic as fuck. Look, Detective Summers and I gotta hash this out. You got a lawyer we need to go through who’s gonna trip us up in red tape?”

Spike shook his head. “I’m a free agent here.”

“You’re sure as hell not free but maybe you can be useful.” Faith sighed. “Okay. We’ll be in touch. I gotta get on a call with the chief.” She got up and left the room.

Buffy opened her leather portfolio and began making notes about what would happen in the next few days. Her calm exterior belied the hammering of her heart. The detective couldn’t be afraid of this Spike, especially in her own precinct, so what else was it?

Scribbling finished, she began to gather the files and pushed her chair back, as though Spike wasn’t even in the room.

“Hey, hold up,” he said softly, putting his hand over the microphone on the desk. A thick gold band encrusted with diamonds winked at her from the pinky of his left hand. “This thing off?”

She glared at him wearily. “Who cares if it is?”

“You might. Then again maybe you’ll want my liquid sex voice on tape for posterity. Fuck, Buffy,” he panted, his eyes glittering at her. “You look bloody amazing.”

“Shut up, Spike.”

He huffed out a laugh. “No, I really can’t when it comes to you. God, I missed you, pet.” His soft, warm voice was like a caress. “Getting hauled in here to get glowered at by you does more for me than any high-end escort on her knees ever could. You’re fucking exquisite.”

“And you’re fucking bent.” The detective refused to meet his eyes, trying to control her breathing while the timbre of his voice heated her skin from the inside out.

“Promise it’d make you scream,” he chuckled.

“I swear to God - ” Buffy gritted her teeth, frustration of all kinds reaching a boiling point.

“No need,” he said easily, clucking his tongue and holding up his hands in surrender. “Just wanted to thank you, pet. For coming back for me.”

“I’m not back here for you,” Buffy told him crossly. “I’m back here for my squad. I’m a little sick and tired of seeing officers get picked off like clay pigeons thanks to your old buddies.”

Spike sighed. “You’ll get them both, yeah? Darla and her bat-face. In the meantime…” - he dipped his head trying to meet her eyes - “…I’m hoping we can pick up where we left off.”

She folded her arms. “You under arrest with an ankle bracelet and handcuffs?”

He grinned. “Whatever turns you on, sweetheart. You know I mean us on stakeouts together, partners like we’ve always been meant to be.”

“Newsflash, Spike. You’re a criminal informant, not law enforcement. There’s no way, no matter how many Boy Scout good deeds you try to pull off, that you will ever be my partner here.”

“There are other ways,” he whispered huskily.

“Spike…” she grumbled. “Mouth, muzzle. Look into it.”

“Come with a nice leather collar, does it?” He blinked at her ingenuously.

_Just leave!_ The Slayer yelled at her host. _Why are you even still there?_

The detective looked heavenward. “Why am I even still here?” she murmured aloud.

“Why do you fight us? It's not so unusual.” Spike got out of his chair and began to saunter over to her side of the table. His forefinger traced the metal top of the table as he approached her as though he were stroking skin. “Two people…in the workplace…feelings develop.”

_Oh, God. Not again._

Buffy’s eyebrows shot up. “Feelings? Sure. Try loathing. Disgust.”

“Heat,” he breathed, now leaning next to her. “Desire.”

“In your fucking twisted wet dreams.”

He grinned almost shyly. “Been having plenty of those since I met you. Ended up having to buy six copies of your little Slayer expose. Your photo kept getting…” - he ran his tongue along his teeth - “…spoiled.”

The meaning was clear: _He got off on it_.

His expression, ripe with innuendo, caused a most vivid picture to blaze behind Buffy’s eyes then: Spike, his hewn muscled body rolling against a mattress with all of the grace and power of a panther and rippling in need. One strong hand kneading the cramped bulge of his thigh, the other wrapped around the base of what had to be a fully-engorged and aching cock. Head back, eyes closed, groaning out her name in a voice strangled with raw hunger… “ _Buffy_ …”

But was it the detective’s vision? Or the Slayer’s own?

She screeched her chair back and picked up the files, eager to clear her mind. “I’m out of here.” She turned to the door but before she could open it, he put his hand out against it protectively.

Spike’s face was deadly serious. “I’ve changed, Buffy.”

“What? From leaching off gangsters to leaching off the police department? Wow, yeah, that’s a sweeping character arc for you.”

“Something’s happening to me. I can’t stop thinking about you. And if that means turning my back on the whole crime thing -”

“You don’t know what you fucking mean!” the detective interrupted. Her voice quivered with fury but her body, oh her body clamored on: exasperated and yet desperate to believe. The words were so like the Slayer’s own, and now she had to wonder if the feelings were similar as well.

“I follow the law to serve and protect because that’s the oath I’ve taken, but I’m no moral high ground,” she continued fiercely. “You want to go straight, go for it, but don’t use me as your reason. I’m not responsible for making you better.”

He shrugged. “Never said you were, but it happened regardless. This is real here. I lo-”

“Don’t,” she stopped him, pointing her finger at him in exactly the same pose the Slayer had made with her Spike on the same subject. And just like that, all the emotions she had felt back then in her own world came rushing forward.

Buffy remembered thinking how she could not hear him say that he loved her - would not allow him to voice it because that put it out in the world and made it real. If he never said it, she could tell herself that Dawn had gotten it wrong, that Spike experienced nothing for her but some misplaced aggression, typical of the vampire-slayer...well, bond, for lack of a better word. Now she knew: their bond was anything but typical.

Really, she had known it all along, from the moment he stepped out of the shadows to applaud her slaying abilities. “Who are you?” she had asked in true surprise, her whole body on pause for the answer. Slaying the vamp ahead of him had momentarily skewed her immature senses and she hadn’t been able to get an immediate read on what exactly Spike was. For a crazy second, she’d wondered if he’d been sent by the Powers That Be to her as a more spar-worthy Angel. Something she wouldn’t have exactly minded, with Spike’s sexy accented voice and billowing leather duster and piqued interest in her. “Maybe he's reformed,” she’d even quipped to Giles when they were researching Spike’s identity back in the library. Religious jokes aside, though, her response also voiced a secret wish, fleeting as it was, that he might not be as cut-throat as he wanted her to believe. That he had, somewhere on his journey, perhaps reformed from fiend to possible friend.

Of course, then he had to go and ruin the whole thing with his “I smell the blood of a nice ripe girl” blah-blah-blah evil vamp spiel. Big stupidhead.

And apparently Detective Summers shared those exact same feelings about Gangster Spike, because her voice had hardened into the sort of no-nonsense tone the Slayer used with her own stupidhead.

“That’s it. I don’t care how valuable you think you are. You’re not worth the annoyance, Spike. Go back to Darla and do whatever the fuck you’re going to do. I’m out.”

Spike leaned back against the door, his face searching hers desperately. “We have something, Buffy. It's not pretty, but it's real, and there's nothing either one of us can do about it.”

“There’s something I’m going to do about it. Leave.”

“You can’t just shut me out.”

“Watch me.” With one strong left elbow, she shoved him away from the door and put her hand on the doorknob. Damn, the detective needed to get out of there quick, the Slayer realized, with every nerve ratcheted straight to “flight” on the old fight or flight meter.

_Because she doesn’t trust herself_ , the Slayer recognized. _The longer she stays, the more she feels. And the more she feels, the more that could possibly happen with him and ohh boy._

“I won’t work with anyone else on this, you know,” he blurted, watching her from the corner she’d pushed him into. “Not even Captain Faith. You walk out on this, that’s another cop’s funeral you’ve allowed.”

The detective turned around slowly from the door to face him, posture rigid. He’d baited her, having her number so completely that he not only had counted, but banked on her inherent do-goodiness that would not allow her to walk away from working with him at the risk of innocent lives.

“I violently dislike you,” she muttered - much like the Slayer had told her own Spike years ago in much the same way. But she hadn’t kept track of what she’d felt then, and now she had no choice but to experience the detective’s take: anger again for the blackmail, but also a glimmer of interest in how far toward good he’d be willing to travel.

“Yeah? I highly disagree. And I’m all you’ve got,” he added, lifting his chin in stubborn pride. “You got no one else, pet.”

Spike strode in front of her and she could not step back from him fast enough, but not before he’d stepped in to inhale the air around her. It was all the detective and the Slayer could do not to gasp. Whatever cologne or just natural-born deliciousness he exuded, it rose up around her face like steam and bloomed an instant warm craving within her. His eyes nearly closed as he eased out a groan. “God, you smell as good as you look. Bet you’d taste even better.” He pursed his lips to her in a cheeky air kiss and let himself out of the room, his expensive camera dangling around his neck.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a crime show junkie going all the way back to Barney Miller (RIP Ron Glass, one of the sweetest celebrities I've ever met) and I once asked my friend's dad, a former cop, what the shows got wrong about real police work. His answer? "Most police work is boring as hell and everybody uses horrible language. All of 'em. Even the women." So thank the late Captain Bruce for all the potty mouths around here.
> 
> The former gangster Henry Hill was probably the worst abuser of the witness protection program (AKA WITSEC) because he continued to get his fingers dirty well after his crime career supposedly ended. You can read all about him in the book Wiseguy, upon which a movie called Goodfellas was based. 
> 
> Drusilla's possible last name is not canon but picked up from an old comic that showed the name on a mailbox outside of her former home. She needed a last name for her file so that's where it came from.
> 
> Quotes, scenes, and dialogue adapted from and inspired by the following episodes: Season 6 Episode 13 "Dead Things," Season 2 Episode 22 "Becoming, Part 2," Season 5 Episode 5 "No Place Like Home," Season 6 Episode 10 "Wrecked," Season 5 Episode 4 "Out of My Mind," Season 5 Episode 7 "Fool For Love," Season 6 Episode 9 "Smashed," Season 6 Episode 6 "All the Way," Season 5 Episode 14 "Crush," Season 2 Episode 3 "School Hard."


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our Slayer gets a chance to play detective and we get a peek into Spike #3's file. Get ready for more Florida adventures!

Cheeks burning, Detective Buffy dropped back into the chair at the table.  The room felt enormous and empty with Spike gone and, for a few silent moments, all Buffy’s host body could do was breathe.

_Yes, oxygen stat and plenty of it, please._ It was exactly what the Slayer needed after the hits she’d just taken.

Breathing deep, she tried to wrap her head around the knowledge of how her own Slayer self, strong and resilient to a fault, had gone and somehow betrayed her by crossing the ultimate of lines and falling in lust with _Spike_ of all hotties.  Lust had been there since their first exchange and only been allowed to simmer under her overwhelming denial.  Well, damn it to hell if she was going to be a victim to it.

The Chosen One responsible for vanquishing the forces of darkness and the armies of hell could certainly keep it in her pants, for heaven’s sake.  If she went back home, she’d control the dumb lust, then slay it. She’d train longer, harder, er _better_ than she ever had before.  She’d make a point to avoid Spike more and think about him less.  Much less. In time, the fever would dissipate (she’d make sure of it), she’d cool down and he’d be none the wiser.  She could forgive her body for being human, certainly. All these human Buffys had fallen for their Spikes, but that didn’t mean she had to.  Plus, he’d never even have to know.

The detective threw open the last file in the stack to see an old line-up photo from several years ago of Spike wearing a black denim jacket and a “come fuck me” stare.  It looked more like a centerfold pinup. Someone with handwriting like the Slayer’s own had kept copious notes from interviews with Spike.

Pratt, William J., age forty five.  Born London, England. Parents deceased; father when the boy was age five, mother when he was age eight.  Bounced around foster care for five years until maternal relatives were located in Ireland - cousins who ran a training camp near Dublin dedicated to the Oglaigh na hEireann group (otherwise known as the Real IRA).  He emigrated to New York City at the age of twenty-eight, but it appeared to be more of an escape since a clipped newspaper article from _The Guardian_ detailed the arrest and disbandment of the terrorist group later in that same year.  The detective’s notes postulated that Pratt had turned his family into authorities in exchange for leaving the country.  Met Drusilla Keeble in 1991 when both attended extension classes through the State University of New York college system.  The couple moved to Miami in 1994, where they were recruited by Darla into the Aurelius Family. That’s when the clan set up operations in Valle del Sol, a town valued by the criminals for its lax seaport regulations, even though millions of cruise ship passengers arrived and departed from Port del Sol every year.  Figuring in the town’s relative wholesomeness, its many small, unregulated airstrips on ranches and fly-in communities in the area, and its drivable distance to Miami, the gang quickly set up a lucrative den of iniquity.  

Detective Summers had arrested Pratt eighteen months previously, well before Dru had died, and the notes detailed that whatever deals Pratt would make with the police, “his girl” would have to be afforded the same clean slate.  Apparently, both of them wanted out but only one survived.

Aside from that minor weapons charge, he had a list of “suspected” crimes associated with the manufacture and distribution of narcotics, along with a list of “alleged” assaults and murders of various criminals.  Apparently, he’d slammed a former drug dealer’s head into the wall of a local bar for insulting a woman, but the charge had been dismissed. _Ah, cockeyed chivalry, alive and well even in the veins of a gangster_.  Spike had never done serious time but readily agreed to work with the police instead.

The detective’s eyes kept glancing back to Spike’s photo and she rubbed her thighs together in frustration.  

“Chief gave us the go-ahead to use our best judgment with Pratt and…” Faith strode through the open door and rolled her eyes.  “Christ. Only the two of you could make an interrogation room smell like sex by just sitting here.”

Cautiously, the detective sniffed the air.  To the Slayer, the room didn’t so much have a sex funk (because _ew_ ) but if someone had told her that she’d been going a round with a vampire or two in the cramped space, she certainly wouldn’t have disagreed...wait.  No, this was essence de slayage, not essence de lustage. Totally different, right? _Right?_

Her mind rewound to that night at the Bronze when Spike had told her about doing in Xin Rong and Nikki Wood, her past sister Slayers: _“You got off on it,”_ she’d accused him with disgust, but he rounded right back on her _:  “You saying you don’t?”_ Wisely, she had not replied. Yet even before that, her own Faith had baldly noticed, _“Isn't it crazy how slayin' just always makes you hungry and horny?”_ And while Buffy had feigned ignorance, she also never admitted how her post-staking nonfat yogurt treat had never come close to satisfying her.

Oh, no.  No, no, no.

_“You can't tell me that there isn't anything there between you and me_ , _”_ her Spike had insisted.  _“I know you feel something.”_ With any other guy, she could write that off as nothing more than a straight-from-the-hip, creepy-ass stalker grasping at non-existent straws.  But while Spike could be that, he had spoken with something beyond blind persistence - something he’d picked up with his irritating Spike perception, which went hand-in-hand with his vampire sensing and vampire hearing and vampire...smelling.  Oh, God.  

_I know you feel something._

_He knew I felt something because he - ugh - could_ smell _it on me._ Just like Faith had in this tiny room right that minute, Spike had honed in on the same reluctant arousal she’d tossed under the proverbial rug of her ire God knew how many months ago.  To his immense and baffling credit, he’d never come out and told her he knew the extent of how her body had turned traitor on her. For all the lines he crossed, that wasn’t one. But damn him, he knew.  And he had wanted her to know he knew. He had wanted her to admit it.

Meanwhile, the detective had started sifting through her own feelings, staring at Faith with a similar helplessness. “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.  Why do I let him get to me like this?”

_Amen, sister.  Let’s figure that out._

Faith shrugged.  “He makes you hot.”

_Not helping._

“Why though?”

“Have you looked at the dude?  Sex on a stick.”

Buffy’s mouth turned down.  “And evil to the gills.”

Faith closed the door.  “Not lately. While you were out, he helped us take down a good lot of low level perps.  Not as high up as his gang, but they were revving up to be.”

“So that makes his lifetime of violence just magically disappear?”

“Might make shackin’ up with him go down a bit easier.”

Buffy’s mouth dropped open.  “Faith. I’m not going to shack up with some dirtbag just because he makes me wet.”

_‘Atta girl._

The captain slid into the chair next to Buffy. “Except he’s not some dirtbag.  He’s Spike. Besides, how often do you get wet over any dude these days?”  

_Great.  Thanks a lot, Faith._

“I’m just off my game.  Remind me never to date other cops.”

Faith smirked.  “More often?”

The detective groaned and raked her fingers through her hair.  “Finn fucking ruined me.”

_Say, you too, huh?  No wonder you hate him.  Except Riley didn’t exactly ruin me but he did leave behind a heartache or two._ Damage that the Slayer hadn’t even contemplated, what with Joyce’s death and the Glory threat overwriting any grief of getting dumped.  If she’d had more than a minute to process it, would she have been more upset about Riley than she had been?

“Finn can’t fuck his way out of a wet paper bag.  The fact that he couldn’t keep up with you and gave you a complex about it squawks about the lowlife he is.  Has nothing to do with what’s really happening. Face it, B. The second you locked eyeballs with Spike, you were both goners.”

_Damn._

“It’s all wrong.”  Buffy shook her head. “I’m basically flipping off everything I stand for, never mind my family…”

Faith put her hand up.  “Time out. Just because you’re a legacy in the force doesn’t mean you’re on some pedestal of a higher standard.  So what if Mommy worked in Internal Affairs and Daddy played Chief for a decade. Who fucking cares? They’re dead now.  You’re alive and a woman first. If some hottie, grey hat as he might be, does it for you, I say go get him. Life’s too damn short.”

“You got one thing right:  life is short. Especially for us.”  

Us:  Cops.  Slayers, too.  At least this Buffy understood what it meant to have an open-ended expiration date stamped somewhere on her person.

Buffy stared at the open file with Spike’s photo taunting her.  “You really think Spike can help us get these bullets off the streets for good?”

“I do.”  Faith nodded.   “And despite the ration of shit I dished out to him, I think he could make witness protection work for him.  Look, you know he only got roped into the Aurelius gang because he fell in love with that ho. Sure if he didn’t think he could save her.  Then the exact drug he’s helping them peddle kills her. Who can even write this crap?”

“Spike straight would be the mother of the unmixed.”  She closed the folder. 

“Wait a sec.” Faith eyed her suspiciously.  “You don’t want him to go straight, do you?”

“Huh?  What are you talking about?”

“Holy shit.”  Faith leaned back and apprised her.  “You like him untamed. In fact, I’d say you’d prefer it.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Buffy sputtered.

“So that’s what this is.  You think you only want him because he’s dangerous.”

The detective breathed quietly for a few moments.  When she spoke, it was the last thing the Slayer expected her to admit.  “I know I want him because he’s dangerous. What if that’s the only reason?”

The Slayer thought about that.  Of course she…appreciated Spike because he could fight.  No way he would’ve been a blip on her radar otherwise. But did part of that…appreciation come from him being the Big Bad?  Would she “appreciate” him less if he were less dangerous?

Not to mention, would her desire for him be less?

“You don’t have to be a gangster to be dangerous. You’re exhibit A on that.  Shit, even if you only go to a shooting range in your civvies once a year, you’re still never gonna be tamed.”

“Thanks, I think,” Buffy replied wryly.

“Although if he’s not a criminal - if he goes legit - then he’s not some throwaway lowlife.  Sure, you can write him off when you’re on different sides, but if he commits to this change…then he’s a real possibility for you.  Not sure you can handle that yet, B. If ever.”

The Slayer gulped.  Guru Faith. Would her sister Slayer provide similar advice in Sunnydale if she hadn’t gone psycho?  Because while it was for a detective about a criminal, her words seemed to hit awfully close for this Slayer about her vampire.

Buffy shook her head impatiently.  “Stop making this into a thing. I just need to get laid.”

“So fuck him and get over it.”

“Really don’t think that’s going to help at this point.”

“Right, because you’re in too deep.  My advice? Time to make an appointment with psych.”

Buffy glared at Faith.  “Screw that.”

“B, you were supposed to have a psych check after your mom died and you blew it off.  You’re overdue and now it’s bitin’ you in the ass.”

“Because I’m horny?”

“Because wanting to make a bed with someone you loathe is not a recipe for good mental health.  Which makes me think there’s either a) less evil in Spike than you want to admit, which makes him an ideal happily-ever-after fuck buddy; or b) you’ve got serious issues.  Either way, therapy is calling your name and I intend for you to answer.”

The detective’s breath caught.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means…” Faith frowned. “…that before you’re green lighted for retirement, you gotta batter up to a full psych eval.”

“You can’t do that,” Buffy protested.

“I fucking already did.  You’re the best cop I ever worked with, Summers, but you’re also my friend.  Damned if I’m gonna lose you.”

_Awesome.  First rehab, now therapy._ What were the Powers That Be trying to tell her here?

Buffy rolled her eyes in resignation.  “Fine, I’ll blow up that bridge when I get to it.  In the meantime, we’re actually doing this? We’re giving Spike everything he wants?”

Faith hesitated.  “Tell him he needs to get us a cop duster bullet - not a shell of one.  We need to find out exactly what we’re dealing with.”

“Copy that.  Faith…” Buffy chewed on a thumbnail nervously.  “This could get really dangerous.”

“We’ll take every precaution.”

“I meant for him.  What if Darla knows he’s the mole?  What if she’s setting us all up, including him?  It could get him killed.”

Faith patted her friend’s arm.  “Then you best not let him out of your sight.”

_Of course_ , thought the Slayer miserably.  _Just what we need_.  

 

***

 

“And duck, and jab! And hook and guard! And duck, and jab!  Keep your guards up, ladies!” 

The gym instructor barked out orders with an authority that would’ve impressed even Giles.

The Slayer counted this as now the third round of exercise Detective Summers had thrown herself into at the sports club down the street from the police station.  After a mind-numbing afternoon of watching her host catch up on emails, filing, and paperwork, the Slayer had been subjected to a spin class on recumbent bikes, followed by team wind sprints in the large gymnasium.  This Power Beats class set kickboxing moves to pounding techno music and, aside from getting her own workout in, the Slayer felt completely unnecessary in this body. Not to mention totally bored. Whistler should’ve included a complimentary bowl of popcorn for the spectator sport of this Buffy’s life.  Then again, after the whirlwind of Music City, perhaps every other world would be a yawn. While the Slayer did not miss the near-constant bustle of Nashville, she did feel lonesome for the easy camaraderie she’d built with Buffy Anne and the conversations they’d shared.  

She also missed the relatively moderate temperatures of Asheville.  Thanks to the heat she felt on the jog down the block, and to Detective Summers showing her driver’s license to the sports club in order to update her membership, the Slayer found out that this Buffy lived in uncomfortably steamy coastal Florida - which she was reminded of again when the detective finished boxing, grabbed her gym bag, donned sunglasses and subjected them to another sweaty jog back to the police station.  Jogging after exercise and in this weather - really? She’d leapt straight into one of the hottest summer states in the country on the 25th of July, 2001. Talk about a hellmouth.

‘Cause man, it was hot.  Unbreathably hot. Like living in a sauna hot.  The humidity had to be close to 100% without a cloud in the sky.  The Florida sunshine beat down on her almost ruthlessly, which only added to the heat of the thick, dense air.  Valle del Sol had all the ambiance and diversity of a well-planned Disney village: palm trees festooned with amaryllis ( _thanks Coach_ ); a faux lighthouse in the town square fashioned with a clock tower; lots of beachy white decking and beige ropes for stair railings and clapboard buildings painted in cloying pastel colors.   Knowing the seedy underbelly of crime this cheerful little town hid, the Slayer could not help but feel the nape of her neck prickle restlessly.  

And ah, there they were - her old Slayer instincts flaring up in a way they hadn’t since she’d last patrolled in Sunnydale.  No reason for a retired coach or a country singer to have them, and feeling them return in this detective body made Buffy feel comfortable in a way she hadn’t in any other world.  A police officer would need slayeresque instincts.  

Even if she did want to make wild monkey sex with the hottest convict she’d ever cuffed.

The hot weather made the Slayer languid and lazy even though the detective seemed to have been infused with an extra-dose of pep for all the calisthenics she’d partaken in, which suddenly gave the Slayer pause.  Training to the point of exhaustion and hunting for demons rather than patrolling for them? That all equalled being Avoidy McAvoiderson. If she had anything else to distract herself with, perhaps the answer wouldn’t have been as obvious, but as it was, the Slayer knew:  Spike. Detective Summers was trying not to think about Spike. The Slayer could feel it as sure as the shivers of suspicion down her back and the rivulets of sweat beading down her nearly flat chest. Yet it left her with another unsettling thought: how many times had Buffy flung herself into something (or against someone) to avoid dwelling on her own Spike?

UGH.  Why did this world have to be so boring?  Boredom led to thinking and thinking led to second guessing, which could only result in regret for which, at this point, she had no cure.  She couldn’t help another Buffy when she herself was full of regret.

The detective slid them into a convection oven of a Subaru Outback painted a dusky forest green that had been parked in the back lot of the police station.  She then took them a few blocks out of the gaudy plastic gem of the downtown to a neighborhood that an optimistic real estate agent might dub as being “in transition.”  Detective Summers apparently felt more at home in the edgier warehouse district near the town’s shipping docks, past the local beach and around a corner that looked dark even in the early evening.  This was the neighborhood in which she’d chosen to make her home, in fact, parking behind a former warehouse of granite and brick and jingling her keys up the rusty fire escape stairs to the second floor.

_Hello swank loft conversion,_ thought the Slayer, taking in the narrow space with its grey walls and black cabinets and four narrow transom windows.  The hunky old wood floors had been polished to a high-end shine and were littered with the only sign of disorder: cardboard boxes in some stage of packing or unpacking.  _Moving in? Or moving out?  And if out, then to where?_

Before she could ponder this further, the detective had turned to the kitchen and the Slayer realized how she ached with hunger.  _Now we’re talking.  What’s for dinner?_

But “dinner” ended up being a vegan pea protein shake with raw spinach, a powdered vitamin blend, blueberries, and coconut water.  Not a snack, not an appetizer but the whole damn meal. When she poured it into a tumbler, the whole thing resembled nothing more than freshly mixed cement. 

The Slayer groaned.  _No rugs, no pillows, no posters, not even some real food.  You might be a slayer, honey, but damned if you don’t live in a tomb.  The question is, why?_

Cup in hand, the detective opened a glass paned side door, which led to an iron spiral staircase and then to a private rooftop deck, small but cozy and home to pot after pot of tropical greenery, a gas grill, a relaxing standup hammock, and a folding side table holding a platter of white wax candles.  The Slayer breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps there was hope for the detective yet.

From this vantage point, Buffy could both see and hear the waves of the beach - without the trouble or cost of being there.  An ingenious and well-planned setup, not only beautiful and serene, but with the benefit of making her queen over all she surveyed - and allowing nothing to sneak up behind her.  The detective guzzled the shake without tasting it - not that there was much taste - and lit the candles, then sank gratefully into the Mexican serape-print hammock. The full-size swing rocked her along with the tickling of a light breeze and the sound of the waves pounding only a few blocks away.   The Slayer felt the detective’s consciousness slowly drifting away, but her own mind only continued to race.

_No roommate, no wedding ring, not even a stupid call on the cell phone you stuffed into your gym bag.  What have_ you _done since your last “I love you?” Besides making everything really neat, really tidy, and really quiet…_ As uncomplicated as it appeared, the Slayer realized in sudden surety that it was not a life that she wanted for herself.

If she went back, how could her own life be different?  Maybe the key to a love-filled life was doing as Buffy Anne had begged her: letting herself be loved.  The glow of it, when she allowed herself to feel it, lit her up more fiercely than a hundred of these Florida suns. But how could that be worth it, since when it left her it froze her to the bone?  She knew she’d let Dawn love her, even though right now that meant her sister must be in pain. _Damn it, it’s exactly what I was trying to avoid for you, Dawnie, don’t you get that?  But now I’m seeing in living, neutral color what a life without love is like: silent as a frickin’ grave and more boring than Coach watching her flowers grow._

_And my life definitely hadn’t been that, even minus the slay-factor.  I even let myself be loved, too. Kinda. Sorta._ It had taken years but she’d allowed her friends some entry to her heart - even when they disappointed her.  As much as it hurt, she knew her relationships with them were stronger for it, so, okay - it was worth it to have stronger suns of love after a temporary cool shadow.  Ditto for Giles, who’d betrayed her terribly a few times but more (she understood from Buffy Anne’s world) because he could not separate his Watcher duties from his paternal love for her.  

The only individual in her life who she’d resolutely banned from loving her was none other than Spike.  Undead, soulless, evil killer demons couldn’t love, ergo, no love existed to either accept or refuse.  

Except Buffy Anne’s words kept coming back to her:  “‘Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.’ For a soulless demon, he sure ain’t lovin’ like one.”  No, reckon not. If anything, he’d gotten the damn Bible definition down pat; even while she recovered somewhere back in Sunnydale, he stayed by her side:  “ev’ry night…ev’ry night I save you.” “Who loves anybody enough to do that?” Buffy Anne had demanded of her. “And why isn’t it enough for you?” She’d seen the exact same look of reverent devotion in all of Spike’s human counterparts that she’d seen when her Spike stood at the foot of her stairs on the night of her leap.  All these Spikes loved their Buffys - even this gangster dedicated to crime wanted to turn his life around, thanks to the detective. Talk about a superpower…

And at that, another realization hit Buffy - this time like a freight train:  _Holy crap.  Sunnydale Spike doesn’t just_ think _he feels stuff for me.  He does. He really - no,_ really _\- does._

_Spike really loves me._

A soulless demon felt love.  For her. He loved her. A grouchy, annoying, sort of evil, once dedicated to her demise now dedicated to babysitting her sister and sleeping by her bedside, Slayer of Slayers vampire loved her.  _Here I am the Slayer, dedicated to goodness and light so I should hate that - a lot - and God, do I but...this is my superpower, too._ Spike wanted to change - had changed - because of loving her.  _On one hand, thanks for not laying on the pressure, sheesh._   But on the other, it was kind of...sweet.  She certainly hadn’t had that effect on Angel.  Or Riley. Or pathetic Parker. All souled supposedly “good” guys.  Nope. 

_Get me:  I won over the biggest of the Big Bads.  Made him not only bark and fetch but roll over and show me his cute little rock-hard belly.  He had no choice but to change because of the chip - which also just so happened to be the exact moment I let him into Giles’ apartment and into our lives.  Status flip from abject enemy to shady ally and Happy Thanksgiving, y’all._ But he’d continued to change because of her.  Loving her. _He can never be good until good answers the door.  You can knock all you like,_ Mr. Pratt had said. _Unless we’re welcomed in, what’s the bloody point?_

With the idea of Spike loving her even in her stasis, it seemed only one conclusion remained; thanks, once again, to Buffy Anne:  “Guess it’s a matter of how much the love means to you.” 

Spike’s love would have to be strong enough for her to trust in.  Unshakeable enough to make the Slayer believe she could love him back.  Enduring enough that there would be no question their love would last. Oh - and it also had to rival heaven.  _Ha, talk about no pressure._   If it weren’t for being stuck here bored out of her skull, she probably never would’ve come to any of these conclusions at all.  Stupid, sweaty, sleepy Florida.

Tentatively, the Slayer reached out a hand and found the body she occupied suddenly responsive.  Detective Summers had fallen asleep in her hammock on her rooftop deck.  

Time for the Slayer to play detective.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buffy remembers exchanges from Season 5 Episode 7 "Fool For Love," Season 3 Episode 3 "Faith, Hope, & Trick," and Season 5 Episode 14 "Crush."


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the Slayer behind the wheel for a change, we get a closer look into the world of Buffy #3.

Buffy eased herself out of the hammock and stretched, the vertebrae in her lower back and the joints of her hips clicking, crackling, and popping. _Sheesh, lady. You may be a Crime Slayer but there’s sure no mystical Calling knitting you back together._ While this body didn’t ache as much as Coach’s, it had obviously labored on the frontlines of battle and bore the full brunt of every blow. With her blonde hair and bright eyes, Detective Buffy appeared youthful, but her body told the real story of how much she had lived.

She gave one more lingering gaze at the sunset over the ocean that this view afforded her. How many times had the detective fallen asleep up here? This little rooftop perch certainly looked more lived-in than the icebox downstairs. Reluctantly, she blew out the candles and headed back to the loft.

Not even the Opry suite that had regular housekeeping services was as neat and unused as this place. Buffy was about to do some surfing on the waiting laptop computer when the home phone rang, causing her to freeze as though she’d been caught red-handed.

The answering machine quickly picked up: “Please leave a message,” her voice requested and at the beep, Buffy heard a somewhat familiar voice:

“Buffy, hey! It’s me. Gosh, I can’t believe it’s been so long. Are you going to the reunion next month? Anders and I are flying in on the Wednesday before and I can’t wait for you to meet Thea, she’s amazing. Buffy, I hope you’re doing okay after your mom and everything. She was like mom to all of us, you know? I wish we had gotten more of a chance to talk after the funeral. Anyway, please call me back when you can so we can catch up. Okay, bye!”

Buffy sat at the desk and looked into the cardboard box that was halfway full, seeing a Valle del Sol high school yearbook from 1976 right on top. Following a hunch, she did some quick math and opened the book, bypassing the dozens of signatures and notes that former students had scribbled to the detective on the inside cover to go straight to the senior section.

“Willow, Willow, where… Okay, not Willow. Willa. Rosenthal. Ha, all right.” The girl who sounded so familiar on the phone sort of looked like the Slayer’s Willow, too, but it was like someone had hired an actress to play her - one who had the same red hair, fair freckled skin, and body type but who amounted to a deviation on the theme of Willow rather than being Will herself.

The name “Anders” stumped her but after flipping through a few pages, she found him: Anderson Lebron Harvey, a substitute Xander, if Xander were half Latino with Buddy Holly style glasses.

And so it went: Corinna Case for Cordelia. Ada Madigan for Amy. Even a “Rufus Jules” had been listed as the librarian for the school at one time and could have been her Watcher’s cousin. Valle del Sol High also had a dead-ringer for the Sunnydale Razorback mascot with the same gold and maroon team colors - and they were about to celebrate their twenty-five-year high school reunion. She closed the yearbook and held it on her lap for a moment. What would the Hellmouth be belching forth in twenty-five years? She wondered what her life would be like then - if she went back, that was. “Will I even be alive?”

With a sudden shiver, she got up from the chair and realized how the detective still wore her workout clothes. Suddenly, Buffy wanted nothing more than a hot shower, some small gift for herself she could choose on her own.

The length of Japanese paper walls next to the kitchen area hid a sliding door that led to a sparse maple bedroom suite and tiled master bath. Buffy luxuriated in the warm, steamy water of a long shower, then wrapped herself in a warm towel from a heated rack.

“Oooh, closet time,” she thought with a little thrill, seeing the open door across the entrance to the bathroom. Then she remembered which life she occupied.

“Welcome to the not-so-wide-world of neutrals. Where any shade not putty or grout-colored is banned by law.” Buffy shook her head as she browsed through the hangers of immaculately hung clothes. “Are you waiting for the representatives of Closet Beautiful to come do a feature on ‘Back to Basics for the Modern Anal Retentive’?” Sighing, she turned to the built-in dresser and rummaged through the drawers until she settled on a very worn University of Miami sleep shirt and a pair of ladies’ cotton boxers. Barefoot, she re-entered the living space and, hands on hips, took it all in.

“What the hell am I supposed to do now? I don’t even need to clean.” No artwork, no photos, no tchotchkes of any kind languished here (although she hadn’t investigated the mysterious boxes). “I guess I could really blow your mind and get fingerprints all over your stainless steel appliances. ‘Cause that’s really what you need: some big, beautiful, hot mess. And I have no idea how to bring that to you.” Buffy’s steely Slayer resolve returned as she stared at the immaculately clean space just begging to be disheveled. “Right, okay. You need a mess, Detective? Let’s make you a frickin’ mess.”

With all the authority of marching through a cemetery, Buffy stalked over to the box that held the yearbook and upended it, littering the floor with old snapshots, a framed high school diploma, and a University of Miami college diploma in criminal justice. In short order, she dumped out every box in every corner of the loft and scattered the contents across the floor. She hijacked the laptop computer (password ‘011958’ - her birthday? Seriously?) and scoured its photo folder. She opened every cabinet and rifled through every drawer. A mom in this Buffy’s life had kept sweet photo albums of all her daughter’s class years going back to kindergarten, but the aging pictures provided nothing but more grim proof of what the Slayer already realized no matter how hard she tried to prove otherwise: this is all she had to work with.

“Guess what? I looked. I made a better detective than you, if I do say so myself. And newsflash, this is all you get. This is your life and the whole shebang fits into four big, old cardboard boxes - one for each decade you’ve been alive. Do you get that?” Buffy yelled into the silent space.

She waited...and felt nothing. No twinge of recognition. No nod of understanding. Defeated, the Slayer crumpled to the floor, criss-crossing the muscled calves of her host and looking at the mess she’d made. So disparate from her own life but sharing a similar person who always managed to make a mess in it.

That big, beautiful, hot-as-hell-and-just-as-annoying mess. Just another way to say “Spike.”

“Speaking of which, where the hell have you been, oh vamp of my world,” Buffy wondered aloud. “I haven’t heard a peep from you since Opryland. Not that I need to hear from you. Of course not. It’s just…” He’d been so vocal since she leapt that not hearing a hint of his voice lately felt like a kind of abandonment.

Buffy closed her eyes and drew on the very depths of herself that still belonged to the Buffy Summers back in Sunnydale, however many scraps of her still prevailed, and she knew.

“You’re still there, Spike,” she whispered. “I know who you are now. You won’t leave.” The most striking vision hit behind her eyes then, a gravestone with the words: “Buffy Anne Summers 1981-2001. Beloved Sister. Devoted Friend. She Saved the World. A Lot,” and she gasped. Not because of the shock that she could be dead but because of the accompanying vision of him: curled up on the thatched grass of her grave in the moonlight, making a pillow of his duster and discussing Dawn, the Scoobies, and his indelible love for her as though it were no different than sitting sentry at her bedside.

“He will never let me go - even when I’m gone. God, who does that?” she asked the room helplessly. Then the answer became obvious.

Spike. Spike did that for Buffy. Mr. Pratt did it for Coach. Will did it for Buffy Anne. This one would be no exception. But that didn’t mean a detective had to throw down with a gangster, no matter how much he loved her. Ditto for a Slayer with a vampire, no matter how hot and devoted he is. The Chosen One needed to choose - in every world. A real choice, not one forced out of obligation but made deliberately. Purposely. Pros and cons fully checked and eyes wide open.

As it was, her eyes were drifting shut in exhaustion.

Dragging herself to her feet, she double-checked the locks, shut off all the lights, then stumbled toward the king-sized bed. She eased herself between the unwrinkled and immaculate white sheets and under its spotless down comforter, leaving the mess she’d made - and the messes in both hers and the detective’s life - at least temporarily behind her.

  
***

“Fuck! Son of a bitch!”

The Slayer got startled awake by a beyond pissed detective who darted from her bedroom to the living area and back while trying to pull on clothes at the same time. From the depths of a gym bag, she heard the faint ring of a cell phone.

“Faith, hey…” the detective answered breathlessly without waiting to hear the captain’s voice. “Sorry about missing our run this morning. I-I overslept.”

“That’s not like you, B,” Faith replied, her voice tinged with worry.

“Yeah, I know,” Buffy’s voice grumbled. “From the looks of this place, I started sleepwalking again, too.”

Oops. The Slayer hadn’t exactly cleaned up after her investigation the previous evening. Her complete bad. Still, it seemed this occurrence wasn’t exactly unique to the detective.

“Shit. You haven’t done that since…”

“Mom got sick. I know. It’s fine. I got a message on the machine about the reunion and I must’ve wigged.” She pulled her hair back in a ponytail with an elastic hair tie bound around her wrist. “Not that I actually remember.”

“Take your time. You can skip the briefing this morning. Go get a coffee and chill.”

The detective sat on the stiff couch, panting. “You sure?”

“Hell yes. I got your back. As far as I know, you’re getting your teeth cleaned, copy?”

“Thanks,” she exhaled gratefully and ended the call. She leaned back on the couch and the Slayer could feel the body willing itself to relax, with little success. “Relax” didn’t seem to be in this Buffy’s DNA.

_Okay, forty-something Queen Control Freak, why are you bugging about an upcoming high school reunion?_ The Slayer could only think of two possibilities: she didn’t want her old friends to see how much things had changed or how much they had remained the same. The detective couldn’t have been this straightlaced her whole life. It didn’t seem like even a Slayer could keep this up for this long. What had done this woman in? And could it be undone?

The detective’s eyes scanned the room tiredly and, with a deep sigh, she heaved herself up to standing and began to repack the boxes the Slayer had upended. Now that she was back in the observer’s seat, Buffy noticed things about this woman’s life she hadn’t last night: certificates and commendations from when this detective had served in the military right after high school, first as a military police officer 31-B and then as a criminal investigations special agent 31-D, when she partnered with the Miami Dade Metropolitan Police Force until eventually graduating from college and joining the ranks of their unit after her army career ended. The Slayer couldn’t help picturing this woman’s constellation of scars and wondered what kind of battles she’d seen in her forty-three years.

A kid trying to juggle college and a career and military service away from home? _Sounds just like Riley._ Damn but she’d expected a lot from the guy - she needed so much from a real partner that was, quite frankly, beyond him. Maturity, worldliness, forbearance - would any of these features come standard on a cornfed Iowa twenty-year-old transplanted to California, a naif to life who’d been relatively secluded, then warped by military and familial expectations? All at once, the Slayer realized that it wasn’t simply the problem of the boys she had loved letting her down - she’d basically been asking the wrong things of the wrong people. She couldn’t expect staying power from someone who’d never had to stick around for anything.   
  
_The only person in my life who’s shown me how he can stick is over a century old, not really living, and my mortal enemy. Fantastic._

Then again, at least it was, she knew now, love.

***

For Detective Buffy, picking up the loft had all the atmosphere of “been there, done that, wore the t-shirt.” As she’d said on the phone to Faith, she’d been sleep-walking before, so the Slayer could only imagine what awaited her in the mornings following her nocturnal excursions. Regardless, it felt like something embarrassing for her, akin to Coach having to rely on her nurses for help bathing. Like Buffy Anne getting snookered and having all sorts of adventures in her drunken state with little memory of it the next day (or even worse, remembering and not wanting to). This body had the same burning shame that she’d been hit with a major nick in her impeccable control and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. Leaving the apartment, then, became more of an escape.

And she sure didn’t want to escape to the precinct right away. Instead, she avoided that as well in favor of a walk around the corner to a coral stucco shack for an espresso-sized cup of excellent Cuban coffee. She sat at one of the bright green picnic tables under the shade of a palm tree and gazed across the road to the entrance of the town’s marina. Something over there drew the detective’s uneasy attention but with no communication between them, the Slayer couldn’t even guess why - though it caused the body a boatload of tension. Just like that, the detective needed to escape from there as well, with work the only place left to go.

The morning marched on drearily with more catchup emails and more filing of paperwork. Even though the Slayer had tried to nudge her host to some delectable-looking guava pastries at the coffee shack, the detective hadn’t consumed so much as a piece of toast that morning and resolutely ignored her body’s insistence for food. The woman’s eyes kept darting to the file organizer at the edge of her polished desk and, after another hour of fitful attempts at distraction, the detective grabbed one of the files and flipped it open.

Someone had pasted a yellow post-it note on the inside front flap of the folder with several numbers scrawled down in a list. Hesitating only a moment, the detective lifted the receiver of her desk phone up to her ear and dialed.

When the other line picked up, the Slayer could hear seagulls in the background before Spike’s rough voice answered, “Yeah?”

Without preamble, the detective tapped her ballpoint pen nervously against his paper-clipped lineup photo in his file and spoke: “We need a bullet.”

“Detective.” Spike’s tone warmed, providing the immediate effect on her body of being plunged into a hot bath and then wrapped up in a heated towel. “This is a true pleasure.” And if she didn’t believe the words, she sure as hell believed how his voice curved around them as though he was trying to embrace her through the damn phone. “Wasn’t expecting you. However are you, pet?”

“Busy. Like I said, we need you to get us a bullet intact. All we’ve been able to recover are shells, which do no good when it comes to figuring out how to stop them.”

His breath caught. “Don’t trust me to get them off the streets for you, then?”

“That has nothing to do with it,” she replied coolly, desperate to keep her voice controlled. “We need to protect ourselves in the meantime.”

The Slayer could hear him smile. “So you do trust me.”

“Never,” she answered in a soft, very unconvincing voice.

“You say that now. I could get you there.”

“I highly doubt that,” she clipped back. “You still meeting with Darla tomorrow?”

“It’s on.” Spike’s mouth seemed to turn in toward the mouthpiece by how close his words sounded next. “Got an itch to surveil me? It’d really pump me up good if I knew you were out there watching my every move.”

“No, thank you.”

“We’ll be at Ruby’s. You know the place. High noon. At least I’ll know you’ll be thinking of me.” From the smug tone of his voice, it was as though he knew she’d already been thinking of him.

“All right. So I think we’re done here.”

“What’s your hurry, love?”

“The hurry is, since I’m not retired, I have actual work to do. And don’t call me ‘love,’” she added primly, trying to keep her desires at bay.

“I’d love to bring you to a place where you wouldn’t take issue with that or any other little nasties I might whisper,” he rumbled. “You make it so easy for me to come…up...with all sorts of delicious thoughts. You know I don’t talk to anyone else like this.”

“Good thing,” the detective couldn’t help but snicker. “Might make ordering a pizza kinda awkward.”

At that, Spike laughed - an openly delighted and surprisingly boyish laugh. “You’re adorable,” he said fondly. “I love that. Tell me you didn’t miss me. Our last stake-out, us all curled up in that abandoned tenement, tensions high, tongues slipping out all our little secrets. That night changed things.”

“Nothing changed,” she said rotely. “It was a mistake.”

“Bollocks, sweet,” he purred. “It was a bloody revelation. You felt something that night.”

“Sure as shit wasn’t love,” she muttered stubbornly.

“Not yet,” he agreed. “But I think this call is proof positive I’m in your system now. You could hang up. Still, here we are. You gettin’ off to the sound of my voice right there in your office. It makes you hot knowing you look all business while I’m in your ear, in your head, in your blood and promising nothing but pleasure. Tell me you don't love getting away with this right under their noses…”

_Slam!_

The detective finally ended the call, almost breaking the receiver of the old desk phone in the process.

“Easy, Killer,” Riley muttered as he walked by her office with a donut in his hand and a scowl on his face.

“Screw you,” the detective breathed out, her hands shaking. She closed her eyes for a moment to collect herself. Damn, even on the phone the man could work it.

Both Buffys now needed a cold shower. The Slayer had never experienced anything resembling phone sex before and could smack both her and her host for allowing themselves to get so worked up by Spike’s voice. God, she could so easily see her Spike pulling a number like this.

Yet something about this guy… sure, he was insanely sexy and just as annoying. But she got the feeling that he and the detective really had shared something beyond sex. Because surely if they’d allowed even so much as a kiss, Spike would’ve rubbed her nose, if not various parts of his own body, into reminding her of it. No, they’d become vulnerable to one another in a way that somehow led to very lustful feelings. How did that happen, exactly?

She heard a knock on her doorjamb and looked up in alarm to see Faith watching her.

“Lunch?” the police captain version of her sister Slayer asked.

“Please,” both Buffys replied in relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spike in this world borrows and refashions some of the dialogue in Season 6 Episode 10 "Wrecked" and Episode 13 "Dead Things."


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's the deal: this was supposed to be two chapters but there is a lot of background information covered that doesn't really progress the story how I wanted. Thus, welcome to 6K+ words. Actually, be prepared for longer chapters in this 'verse because cutting them at 3K and 4K ends up leaving the action in a REALLY frustrating place and I wanna keep things moving. In real time, Valle del Sol is DONE! (I am pretty sure we will end this world at Chapter 38, if I counted right.) In posting time, we have quite a ways to go. So the next time I decide to write crime noir, remind me to NOT!

Fiesta de Carne, the combination food truck and rainbow tented cantina located on the other side of the marina near the public beach, had a lot of things going for it:  it was cheap, it was within walking distance of the precinct, and it was a literal meat party of every kind of grilled street taco a hungry Slayer might crave. Captain Faith indulged in the combo steak with beef and, for a moment, the Slayer forgot she couldn’t order for herself.  She nearly cried out her distress when the detective ordered the vegan platter.

 

Vegan.  Great. _Buffy Anne would be having an actual cow right now, probably so she could make her own burger from it ’cause that’s the only way she’d be getting any meat in this world._

 

A pang of longing, of homesickness, hit the Slayer in the middle of what would’ve been her chest, if she had her own body. Coach and Buffy Anne had really taken care of her in their own ways and now that she didn’t have the nursing home’s three daily, if bland, squares with the surprisingly good coffee or the Opry Resort’s room service plus any number of Nashville’s decadent Southern specialities, she realized how much she missed the simple pleasure of food.  The platter was delicious, no doubt, but it was seriously lacking in substance and she never would’ve ordered it on her own. Neither would Buffy Anne or Coach, she guessed, and that brought up the other reason for the pang in her chest: guilt. Before she’d leapt out of those worlds, she honestly felt genuine love for both her Buffy counterparts and knew they loved her, too. But this one... she couldn’t gain any traction with her at all. She definitely couldn’t get a solid read on her.  And she wasn’t sure she wanted to.  

 

 _I don’t really know you_ , the Slayer thought uneasily.  _And I don’t think I like what I do know._

 

And oooh, wouldn’t the other two Buffys get a kick out of that!  

 

“Hmm, she’s buggin’ the shit out of you, Slayer?  Gosh, wonder why?” she could imagine Buffy Anne giggling. 

 

“She’s working you up a tree but good,” she could also hear Coach noting with her husky little laugh.  “Why do you suppose that is?”

 

“Because I’m supposed to help her, dammit,” Buffy wanted to complain.  “And she won’t even let me in. But more than that, she won’t let _anything_ in - not color, not music, not meat, not even cheese.  And no _one_ , not even Faith, not really.  She’s totally closed off, she’s - ” 

 

… _the worst of me._

 

Parts that had been allowed to grow and mutate and remain unchecked for decades.  Parents gone, friends gone, lovers gone… The Slayer couldn’t help but remember Angelus’ mocking challenge: “Now that's everything, huh? No weapons, no friends, no hope. Take all that away and what's left?” “Me,” she’d responded without hesitation and proceeded to kick the singular kind of vampire butt Slayers were designed to do in battle and with ultimate success.  But what about for the regular battles of life? Sure, she could do it on her own - but did she even want to? If she asked the right person, er people, to fight with her, it could be less like battling and more like living.

 

Detective Buffy had no partner, in the field or in life.  No chance to get hurt by the missteps of a lover, no opportunity to let a parent or a mentor misunderstand her.  No highs, no lows, stable as a long, flat line.  

 

Flatline - another word for “dead.”

 

“…telling you, B, you don’t know what you’re missing,” Faith was saying with her mouth half full, chowing down on her double meat taco.  “I knew you were cutting back but when’d you go all out vegan?”

 

The detective shrugged, tucking into one of the grilled veggie tacos and dipping the edges in spicy corn salsa.  

 

“Lemme guess.  After Ma died.”

 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Buffy sing-songed.

 

“You always say you don’t want to talk about it.”

 

“Because it’s always true.  Now tell me about tomorrow.”

 

“I’ll set up blondie’s wire,” Faith said, easily switching gears from the subject of Buffy’s personal life with little more than a resigned grunt.  “I’m meeting him at that old rest stop on Route 20.”

 

“You think it’s necessary to go that far out of town?”

 

“Spike can’t be seen anywhere close to the precinct during this op.  Darla ain’t gonna be fuckin’ around if she’s runnin’ this score. Word has it her man’s in the weeds.”  At Buffy’s glance of curiosity, Faith shrugged. “Nest’s supposedly dying of cancer.”

 

“If it’s true?” Buffy gave a cool smirk of satisfaction.  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

 

“Yeah, but it makes him ten times more dangerous.  Fucktard didn’t have shit to lose before, he’ll be gunnin’ to go out in a blaze of glory now.  Pratt said Nest wanted him to move into the family estate as part of coming back to the fold.”

 

Detective Buffy dropped her half-eaten taco on her plate.  “What did Spike say?”

 

“He begged off on account of his diagnosis and Batface let it ride.  What’s up with that, anyway? What diagnosis?”

 

“You’d have to ask him.”

 

“But you know.”

 

“Faith, that’s not my information to share.”

 

“It is if it makes him a liability to us.”

 

“Oh, for God’s sake, it’s not like he’s on the edge of a breakdown,” Buffy snapped, digging her tortilla in the guacamole.  “It’s normal stuff. He’s got scripts for high blood pressure, cholesterol, auto immune, whatever…” She waved her hand nervously.  

 

“Damn, who would know, right?  A dish like him looks like he’d be perfect.”

 

“Nobody’s perfect.”

 

“Well, sickness aside.  He should bottle and sell what he does have goin’ on.  He could be Viagra for chicks all on his own.”

 

“If you’re so hung-up on the guy, why don’t you go after him?” the detective asked crankily.

 

Her captain raised her eyebrows.  “Because you’d flip your wig, B.”

 

Buffy stopped eating.

 

“Besides, you know he ain’t my type, he’s yours.  With eyes only for you.”

 

“I don’t need to hear that.”

 

“No, you need to fucking do something about it.  You have not been the same since the day you hauled that dude in.  The more time you spend with him, the better and worse you get. Better because you’re more feisty and full of piss and vinegar, as Joyce might say, than I’ve seen since you left Miami.  Worse because you slam every feeling you could have for him six feet under until the only thing left to do is fuckin’ punish yourself.”

 

Buffy jerked her head up.  “That’s bullshit.”

 

“Really?  First you ditched chocolate.  That alone would kill most people.  But you didn’t stop there.” Faith began counting off on her fingers.  “You cut out sugar. Most booze. Beef. Then all meat. Milk. Fish. Then all dairy.  Now eggs. Shit, what’s next? Coffee?”

 

The detective glared at her.  “Coffee’s non-negotiable. It’s not so much a food item as a life staple.  Pretty much up there with water and air.”

 

Faith grinned wryly.  “At least you clued in that you need water and air.”

 

“I was mostly veg for years,” the detective added, with a toss of her hair.  “All the rest of it, well, those are just good healthy choices.”

 

“Woman can’t live by spinach alone,” Faith intoned and turned back to her meal.  The two ate in silence for a while and then the captain cleared her throat. “What even happened between you and Pratt, B?  I know something did and you never told me what.”

 

Buffy’s host remained so quiet that the Slayer thought she might totally ignore the question.  But after a false start or two, the woman began to speak.

 

“He’s not on the edge of a breakdown but if he doesn’t have his meds he…bottoms out.  Gets the shakes or whatever. I was, you know, fresh off of bunking with Mom 24/7 and walking her through her drug side-effects.  So talking him down and getting him through his deal just came easy to me. It was no big.” 

 

“It was to him.”

 

Buffy snorted.  “We were hiding out from Angel.  We hadn’t slept, we’d been up in each other’s grill for days.  The whole thing just got blown out of proportion.”

 

“So that covers what you did for him.  What did he do for you?”

 

At that, the detective’s throat constricted and the Slayer felt a sick wave of dread.   

 

“Off the record?”  the detective hedged.

 

“Of course.”

 

“He killed Angel.”

 

Faith’s eyes bulged.  “And you didn’t report it?  That’s not like you.”

 

“He saved my life, Faith,” Buffy heard herself whisper.  “Angel cornered me. He had a clear shot, too. He didn’t even know Spike was with me at that point.  So Spike just came up behind him and…”

 

“…blew him away,” Faith finished grimly.  She leaned back against the metal chair of the cafe table they sat at.  “Well, shit.”

 

“And I couldn’t report it because - ”

 

“Then Nest and Darla would’ve known for sure Spike was working with us,” Faith filled in and Buffy nodded.  “He should still answer for it. Don’t you think?”

 

Buffy’s host exhaled heavily and gazed out over the public beach.  Where there had been nothing but clear sunny skies when they sat down to lunch, a heavy cloud of ominous black had rolled in and temporarily obscured the sun.  The same kind of black cloud had descended over the detective’s heart, perhaps due to the lies she had rattled off, the subterfuge she had designed, her deep pangs of guilt, her feelings for Spike, or a complicated combo platter of them all.

 

“Storm’s moving in,” she murmured.  

 

“As it does.” Faith sighed.  “Summers. When you finish this op are you or are you not going to hook Spike for the 187 on Angel?”

 

“I don’t know, Faith, all right?” the detective cried.  “Look, I know Spike’s far from a saint. But if it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t have even been in that situation.  And you know Angel would’ve killed us both after a nice round of his particular brand of long-drawn-out torture.”

 

Faith stared at her plate. “Pratt kills his bestie to save you.  Then you cover it up. Wow. Everybody’s just full of surprises.”

 

“I’m trusting you to keep this on the d.l.”

 

“You’re the one who said it was off the record, remember?”

 

“And after the op?”

 

“B, you are the straightest arrow I know.  Every cop in a sixty mile radius knows it should be you as captain up there, not me.  So if you’re willing to let Pratt skate on this…” 

 

“No, Faith, no.  I’m not the bastion of moral superiority here.  Wrong is wrong. Even when I do it. So tell me I’m wrong.”

 

Faith shook her head.  “It’s not that simple.”

 

“It is!” Buffy insisted, her voice shaking.  “It's wrong. I'm wrong. Tell me that I'm wrong, please... Please don't forgive me…” she pleaded.  “Please?”

 

Faith gave her a look of infinite patience and calm.  “There’s nothing wrong with you, B. Nothing wrong with wanting him or wanting to protect him.  No shit to forgive, either. Angel was a sadistic asshole who needed to be in the ground anyway and Spike’s done a lot of good.  Does it even out? Hell if I know. Don’t you get there’s no rule book for this kind of shit? That’s why our job sucks. We make the calls, the tough calls, out here every day.  When we make mistakes, the people we try to protect die.”

 

“No shit.”

 

“But that doesn’t mean mistakes aren’t gonna happen.  We’re fuckin’ human, not machines. Not even you, no matter how much food you cut out, how many miles you run or power pump classes you pound through.”

 

“I have never compromised so much,” the detective declared, shaking her head at herself.    “For one person. Who’s not even, like, good.”

 

“He’s not exactly bad, either.”

 

Buffy glared at Faith.  “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

 

“Maybe?” Faith squinted at her.  “B, you’re obsessing and it’s tearing you up.”

 

“With damn good reason!  If I’m wrong about Spike, way wrong, he’s out in the world unchecked and free to be as evil as he wants to be.”

 

“Not so much.  WITSEC does really good monitoring.  And the Feds have been knocking on your door for you to join ‘em for years.”

 

The detective shoved her plate away with disgust.  “So I should cozy up with Spike when he goes into WITSEC on the pretense of working for the Federal Marshals and keeping him honest?”

 

Faith grinned.  “Sounds like fun to me.”

 

“That’s insane, that’s - ” 

 

“Just the loophole you’d need to satisfy both your conscience and your cunt?”

 

Buffy grimaced in distaste.  “Jesus, Faith. Graphic enough?”

 

“Uptight much?” Faith countered.  

 

Buffy cleaned the last remaining scoops of food off her plate and shoved them into her mouth almost dismally.  The woman’s body absolutely _churned_ with how conflicted she was.  No wonder she made a habit of eating so little, because the second her stomach became full, the Slayer felt how the angst twisted the warm sensation of satiation into sickening turmoil.  

 

Faith stood up and grabbed their empty plates.  “Be with him, don’t be with him. But decide, for God’s sake.  This dance you’ve been doing on the razor’s edge is gonna slice you to pieces and I need you whole.”

 

As she walked their trash to the barrel at the corner of the lot, the skies picked that particular moment to open up with a torrent of warm rain.  Together, the women jogged across the street and huddled under the refuge of the Valle del Sol Community Bank’s glass awning while showers poured down all around them.

 

“Fucking Florida,” Faith muttered.

 

***

 

The storm ended as quickly as it began and the wet streets billowed with steam at the return of the unrelenting sun.   The detective and her captain strolled out into the stifling humidity, their steps almost ponderous as they returned to the precinct without a trace of hurry.

 

“About tomorrow,” Faith began, sliding her sunglasses down from the top of her head and over her eyes again.  “I, uh, think it might be a good idea to keep an eye on him. At the meet.”

 

“And you’d like me to do it,” Buffy realized with a tired sigh.

 

“Well, it sure as hell can’t be Finn.  Look, it’s way below your pay grade, I get it - ” 

 

“No, it’s fine.  I know when and where.  I’ll do it.”

 

Faith turned to her and cocked a brow.  “That sounded almost like giving in, Summers.”

 

“No.  I decided, is all.”

 

“Decided what?”

 

The detective took a careful breath.  “That for as long as this op lasts, I’ll be whatever I need to be to get it done.  Spike’s bodyguard, his warden, his - ”

 

“Mommy?” Faith filled in with a smirk.

 

“First, ew.  And second, no.  That’s not… He had a friendship with a woman who died.  A _friendship_ , Faith,” she emphasized, seeing her captain still leering at her.  “I know he must be missing her, especially with his ho-bag girlfriend dead, too.  Plus, it’s not like he really even wants to be an Aurelian any more.”

 

Faith stopped walking, shaking her head from side to side as though she had water in her ears.  “Jeez, for a minute it almost sounded like you might actually have some, like, genuine sympathy for that hardened criminal named Spike.”

 

Buffy frowned.  “I guess I kind of let myself forget.”  She glanced at Faith. “That he really did save my life.  You can take away everything else he’s done, good or bad, but that.  I’m alive because of him.”

 

“And sometimes you wanna punish him for it, don’t you?” 

 

“Fuck, Faith.  I don’t have a death wish,” Buffy spat.

 

“Sure you do.  We all do. Soldiers, warriors.  Cops. We dole it out long enough, we start itchin’ to see what’s behind that curtain for ourselves.”

 

“Maybe I did once.  And maybe I haven’t had a chance to think about it since Mom.  But I know now.” She looked at Faith straight on. “I don't wanna die.”

 

“Then you best start living,” Faith advised.  “Starting with spending the rest of today helping me digitize all the old ’99 files,” she added, with a teasing lilt to her voice.

 

Buffy huffed out a snort of annoyance.  “ _That’s_ living?”

 

Faith laughed.  “Sure beats the alternative.”

 

***

  
  


Whatever illusions the Slayer had about the life of a decorated police officer, she’d never focused on the mundane duties of responding to emails, adding forms to existing case folders, and scanning paper files to digital copies.  Aside from having to be debriefed by Giles for his own records, her life as a Slayer seemed much easier in certain ways. Here the slayers not only had to catch the bad guys, but make sure they didn’t rough them up too badly or infringe on any amendment rights, plus fill out about ten pages of paperwork after.  What a pain.

 

Around five p.m. and right outside her door, voices discussed upcoming weekend activities and, more immediately, trivia night plans at some pub in the next half hour.  The detective’s heart racing, she picked up the phone right before the face of the older cop Rusty peered in on her. She faked a whispered conversation into the receiver until the man raised a hand in adios to her before continuing down the hall.  

 

_Wow, you really aren’t up for any kind of confrontation, huh?_

 

Without delay, the detective scurried around her desk and quietly shut the door to her office, then leaned against it with her heart still thudding in her chest.  After a few quiet minutes, the end-of-day bustle and all the noise that accompanied it faded away on the other side of the door and the detective breathed her relief.

 

 _Lemme guess:  we’re sneaking out of here before anyone can see us, grabbing the gym bag from the car, and exercising to the point of collapse_ , the Slayer mentally surmised.  The detective didn’t disappoint, subjecting them to three exercise sessions - sprints, spin class, and actual boxing with gloves and punching bags - after work, followed by a liter of lemon water and a jog back to the car.  Then a brief drive to the loft, a protein shake, and a doze on the hammock upstairs with her body still itching with the salt of unwashed sweat.  

 

“C’mon stinky,” Buffy said, once she had control over her host’s body again, “let’s get a real shower.  Not one of your five-minute scrub downs, but a real one with those great wall jets on. This time, I’m using the mango shower gel I found under the sink that had the Christmas bow still on it.  I’d order a damn pizza, too, if I didn’t think I’d freak you out in the morning again.” Sighing, she stubbornly hauled her host’s body downstairs and turned on the alarm next to the bedside for the pre-set time of 5 am ( _groan_ ) and, following the luxurious shower, climbed into the big comfy bed.  

 

“Okay, here’s the deal.  I’ll follow your stupid meal plan for now, but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna sleep upstairs like a frickin’ pirate,” the Slayer groused.  “Get over it.” She thought it would be a long time before she would be able to fall asleep but, surprisingly, she drifted off within minutes.  Who knew sunny Florida would be so exhausting?

  
  


***

 

“Last lap?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Coffee at Rico’s after?  My treat.”

 

“You got it.”

 

Buffy and Faith had met for their ( _God)_ five thirty a.m. run on a paved bike path next to the sand dunes of the beach.  The Slayer hadn’t kept track of the distance since Faith wore a mileage meter on the waistband of her shorts, but she estimated they were going for a good old 5K and mastering the goal of the eight minute mile.  If she hadn’t been so curious about what the two would discuss, she would’ve gladly stayed asleep.

 

The detective had woken up puzzled and suspicious in her bed but not as angry as she’d been the previous morning.  She even took the time to make a breakfast protein shake and, while it again tasted like cold blandness, at least the Slayer felt somewhat appeased.  The lady had even thrown in extra berries and a fresh banana. 

 

Rico’s was the name of the the coral-colored stucco shack that the detective had already visited, and the women completed their run there with large cups of cafe con leche.  They flopped gratefully onto the picnic table benches and alternated sips of coffee with sips from their plastic water bottles.

 

“Noon,” Faith said out of nowhere.

 

“I know.”

 

“Go to the lot at eleven hundred and get a vehicle.  Make sure the equipment’s ready so you can record. I’m gonna use 398.460 g’s for the frequency.  It’ll fly under the radar if anyone uses an RF detect on him and your signal should be five by five.”

 

“Copy that.”

 

“You want an assist?”

 

The detective met her friend’s eyes.  “We can’t really spare anyone, can we?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Then I’m fine.”  Buffy shrugged.  

 

“Hit me up on the walkie.  Don’t use phones. I’ll be on standby ready to motor in if it’s a 911.”  Faith paused. “You ready for all this?”

 

“More than,” the detective replied, but the Slayer felt gloom crowding the corners of her host’s mind.  The closer they came to the case being closed, the sooner her time with Spike would be over. Then the detective had some choices to make about whether any relationship could exist outside of the “workplace.”  From her torrent of opposing emotions, the Slayer knew that her host was far from ready - for any of it.

 

***

 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

 

The detective had pulled into the parking lot of the precinct and headed straight for another lot of cars next door, this one partitioned off by a chain link fence with barbed wire trim and a matching locking gate.  She’d found an ominous-looking black van waiting, along with a scowling Finn holding a clipboard and dangling the keys on his forefinger.

 

“What’s the matter, Killer?  This cop shop not up to your high standards?”

 

The detective’s body visibly bristled.  “At least I have standards.” She smirked.  “Which is why there is no way in hell I’m taking the Death Star Van.”

 

“We painted over it!  The Death Star isn’t even on there anymore.”

 

“Still doesn’t change what it is, which is the biggest piece of sticking-out-like-a-sore-thumb piece of recovered shit vehicle on the damn lot.”

 

“Which happens to be the only thing running that will fit all of the surveillance equipment.  It’s either this or you go to the meet and eavesdrop while sitting on his friggin’ lap.” Finn’s lip curled.  “Which is what I’d bet you’d just love to do.”

 

The detective’s own lips twisted angrily.  “What I’d love to do is my job with a proper damn ride.  I don’t understand why that’s so much to ask for.”

 

“Because the precinct’s fucking broke, Summers,” Riley said flatly.  “We’re paying out stipends for fallen officers faster than we can get the funds from Orange County.  We had to sell the other two recon vans and cut Chuck down to part-time. Which is why I’m filling in here, and I don’t speak grease monkey.  So the one good van’s still on the blocks until Chuck can swap out the alternator.”

 

“Shit,” the detective muttered under her breath and rubbed her forehead in irritation.  “This stupid op’s going tits up before it even gets off the ground.”

 

“It’ll be okay,” Riley answered, his voice now soft with surprising tenderness.  “You’re running it. You’re the best there is.”

 

Warily, the detective met his eyes.  She reached over and plucked the proffered keys from his finger and nodded to the clipboard.  “Sign me out?”

 

“Yeah, of course.  Buffy…”

 

She’d been in mid spin of turning away and paused to look over her shoulder at him.

 

“I hate that things are like this between us,” he admitted.

 

“I didn’t make them this way.”

 

“I know.  That’s my fault and…I’m sorry.”

 

Facing him full-on, both Buffys stood still and drank that in, both of them feeling pretty sure it would be the only apology they’d ever get from this guy.

 

“You should be,” she told him quietly.  “You left, Riley. I don’t need people, ever.  It’s a thing. But that, with Mom, was actually a moment in time I could’ve used a hand and you completely bailed.”

 

“I had nothing to give you, Buffy.  I’ve never watched anyone I loved die, least of all a parent and I… I hated feeling so damn helpless.  You were better off without me.”

 

“Kinda clued into that, thanks, right around the time you tried to blame me for my own strength.  Just what a girl longs to hear as her mother’s wasting away: how she’s ‘a lot’ and there’s nothing the guy who said he loves her can do for her.”

 

The Slayer’s heart seized.  Here they were, this Buffy and Riley, grown-ups with human jobs and regular lives and the guy still couldn’t hack being with her.  Maybe losing Riley - or any of them - had very little to do with being the Slayer at all.

 

“I never should’ve said it like that - or then.  Or hell, maybe ever. Still? I stand by it. You are… a lot. But I didn’t mean it as a slam, I swear.  You were more than…damn Buffy, you have to know the shock and awe you’ve got going on just by walking into a room.  Nothing personal.”

 

She huffed out a note of protest.  “How else am I supposed to take it when how I am is exactly why you left me?   Can’t get more personal than that.”

 

“No, that’s on me.  It’s not that you’re too strong, you’re exactly how you should be.  It’s that I’m not strong enough. For you.”

 

“And yet, you still manage to make that feel like my fault.”

 

“Buffy…”

 

“Look, I can give you civil and I can give you professional.  You don’t sling barbs at me and I’ll return the favor. But that’s it.”

 

“So you don’t forgive me?”

 

“Of course I forgive you, Riley.  I have to. What you did to me is so not okay that I refuse to be connected to it any more.  Forgiving you is the big old boltcutter to the chain of crap still between us. I refuse to feed that beast anymore.”

 

Inside, the Slayer was in a kind of awe.  Her whole life, between her mother showing the ultimate grace by appearing to forgive Hank for his betrayal and Giles with his “we forgive others because they need it” schtick, Buffy had this idea that forgiveness was still a kind of surrender.  An exemption. That the harm that had been done had been excused somehow. But the detective had a different take on it - a pretty badass one, actually, and the Slayer exulted in it.

 

“Well, thank you for that, I guess,” he muttered.  “You make even forgiveness look like battle.”

 

“That’s who I am,” she said airily.  “I’m not just ‘a lot,’ Sergeant. I’m everything.”

 

 _Oh, yeah!_ The Slayer wanted to cheer.  _Good for you, lady.  Now where exactly did that come from all of a sudden?  Did I give you that? Or…_   Buffy became very still.   It seemed very likely that part of the reason the detective had settled things with Riley had something to do with how she felt about her Spike - even for what his love inspired in her.  And the Slayer had no idea what to do with that.

 

After that sweet little dress down, the detective hummed her way through testing the recording equipment in the back of the van, setting the frequency Faith requested, and checking all the connections.  The woman’s heart felt light, as though the argument with Riley had set her free. Perhaps there was real power in breaking the manacles of mistreatment with a boltcutter of forgiveness.  

 

***

 

 _Luckily, the lunch rush around this place guarantees that the former Death Star van isn’t gonna raise one eyebrow,_ the Slayer thought with relief.  Ruby’s was one of a half dozen other bustling restaurants on Maple and every contractor, painter, and lawn maintenance team from the immediate area appeared to be getting their chow on.  No one would give Buffy a second glance.

 

11:40 a.m. read the clock on the dashboard when the detective climbed in back of the van, taking off her sunglasses to adjust high-power binoculars.  _You guys actually do dress up for ops_ , the Slayer mused, gazing down at the cement grey uniform jumpsuit that indicated she could be on break from painting ceilings or moving furniture.   To complete her image of inscrutability, the detective had pulled her hair up into a bun and hidden it under a battered painter’s cap. She took a gander at the front entrance of Ruby’s through the van’s tinted back windows, three parking places behind her, and waited.

 

 _Here she comes,_ the Slayer thought tensely.  Darla - her hair in a updo-twist and wearing a form-fitting denim shirtdress.  With her dark, Jackie-O style sunglasses, straw hat with the matching wicker purse and strappy black sandals, Darla looked more like a tourist than a mistress of crime - _which must be the point_.  _And she’s ten minutes early.  I don’t know much about gang meeting etiquette but I’m guessing she’s setting the playing field leaving Spike at a disadvantage - though I bet he won’t see it that way._ Her own Spike would enjoy making his prey sweat it out, giving himself time to prepare and judge the situation from a distance.  

 

 _And speak of the devil…_ Spike arrived shortly after Darla, strolling in as the picture of serene ease with his hands in the pockets of his navy blue travel suit pants.  The two buttons of the trim, notched-lapel matching jacket were open and exposed the lighter blue shirt underneath. _Which will bring out his eyes like whoa,_ the Slayer noted automatically and simultaneously cursed herself.  With his black sunglasses, she couldn’t tell what, if anything, Spike had in his sights and she wondered if he had any inkling of her presence.  With the dress shirt nearly open to his chest, she also wondered where in the hell the wire could be on him.

 

The detective moved over to the equipment and flipped some switches on the complicated-looking tape deck console and, in another moment, took a pair of heavy headphones plugged into one of the ports and slipped them on.

 

_Showtime._

 

Immediately, she heard the rustle of fabric and then the din of conversation and clattering of plates from inside the crowded restaurant.  Spike ordered a drink from the bar and she could hear him say, “Ta, mate,” before moving away. In another moment, she heard his voice again:

 

“This seat taken?”

 

“Why William, what a lovely surprise,” Darla replied.  “Fancy meeting you here. Won’t you join me?”

 

“It’d be my pleasure,” he told her and, when Buffy heard the palm of his hand hitting wood, followed by the screech of a chair being pulled over a tile floor, she realized that the wire wasn’t one at all.  It was a bug that must’ve been planted in the diamonds of his pinky ring. Sly Faith.

 

“You’re alone today?” he asked.

 

“Sadly, yes.  My sweet Ricky couldn’t get away in time.”

 

“Pity.  Well, allow me to keep you company for lunch then.”

 

“I’d really appreciate that.”  

 

“Welcome to Ruby’s,” came a younger man’s deep voice, so familiar the Slayer burned with curiosity to see his face.  “I see you have drinks. Can I bring you lunch or all-day breakfast menus?”

 

“Neither are necessary,” Darla said breezily.  “Chicken Caesar salad for me.”

 

“Uh, right.  Gazpacho with the grilled shrimp, please.”

 

“I’ll put these right in for you.  My name’s Forrest. Please let me know if I can get you anything else.”

 

 _Forrest!_ That was the voice she recognized, that of Riley’s fellow soldier and a man whose death she counted as one of her failures.  Even though not much love was lost between them, she would always feel a twinge of guilt for not being able to help the Forrest in her world from becoming one of Adam’s zombie cyborgs.

 

The sound of ice tinkled in a glass.  “You’re looking well. Not too grief-stricken.”  Darla’s voice had an edge to it.

 

“Good days and bad days.  You know how that is.”

 

“Ricky will be sad he missed you. You must come out to the compound soon and visit.”

 

_Ricky?  Oh, God, is that an actual nickname for Heinrich?  Well, to that an extreme ‘yuck.’_

 

“Ah, yes.  You’ve moved to the outskirts of town, as I recall?”

 

“Yes, well out of the jurisdiction of Valle del Sol.  The…taxes here just…slay us.”

 

Darla didn’t mean taxes, the Slayer thought.  She meant something else - a nod to the good police work of the detective and Faith, perhaps.

 

“So I’ve heard.  One of the benefits of keeping my residence afloat.”  Buffy heard movement on the table and a glass pinging the side of maybe a butter knife.   

 

“Yes, the pirate’s life for you.  How charming.” Darla’s tone suggested she found his living situation anything but.  The Slayer wondered what a floating residence might look like. This Spike lived on a houseboat?

 

“Tell me, have you had any interactions with our friends the Guards?” Darla asked.  “Hopefully they’re giving you no trouble.”

 

_Guards?  More lingo for police?_

 

“Was called in just this past week, as a matter of fact.  Couldn’t find a thing to stick, though.”

 

_Yup._

 

“Don’t suppose anyone asked for me.”

 

“You know they did.”

 

“And?”

 

Fabric rustled.  “You see any wires?  I’m no one’s bloody puppet.”

 

“Then I suppose we can speak freely.  By the way, don’t listen to the chatter.  Ricky is healthy as a horse and fully invested in this operation.  But you know, it’s really just a means to an end.”

 

“How so?”

 

“The only positive of Ricky’s illness was realizing how much can be made from it.  Both from the chemotherapy drugs themselves and those that manage the side-effects.  They make what we got out of Vamp look like pocket change. The Dusters will fund the next phase and provide the steady kind of income that our escorts once provided, but be much more inconspicuous.”

 

“Not sure if I follow.”

 

“Black market drugs, Spike.  God, do you have to have everything spelled out for you?  Honestly, I don’t know what my sister saw in you half the time.  Then again, she was a junkie,” Darla muttered. “When Ricky and I were in the Dominican, we were able to procure a number of compounds that have no way of being approved in the States.  All the manufacturers need is a place to call home.”

 

“And you want it to be here.”

 

“We’ve already got a base, which I’ll show you later, now all we need is the funding.  We need a major player to purchase some of our Dusters. For instance, someone you’re well-acquainted with from your previous life abroad.”

 

“I don’t keep in touch with anyone from my previous life, ducks.  You know that.” His voice had turned wary.

 

“Then why did you tell our dearly-departed Drusilla that you had certain friends who would help you both get settled should you ever need to leave us?  Certain wealthy friends. Wealthy, Greek friends.”

 

Even from beyond the grave, it appeared that the Drusilla in this world was still ruining the life of William Pratt.

 

Spike’s voice was low and cold.  “You don’t want an investor like him in the mix.  He doesn’t fuck around.”

 

“He’s an international arms dealer, you idiot,” Darla hissed.  “He has to be in the mix. You know him, so you make the overtures.  This is your contribution. Or did you really think Ricky and I would let you waltz in and wet your beak without bringing a thing to our table?”

 

“Kyros Kakistos is a right bastard - who knows my old clan.  If for any reason he got his knickers in a twist about us, it’s a fair bet he’d tell certain interested parties how to find me.”

 

_Kakistos?  Oh, boy. And the hits just keep on coming…_

 

“Well, that’s your problem, isn’t it?” Darla laughed.   “At least we know you’ll be properly invested. And motivated to make Kyros as snug as a bug in a rug with our little plan.”

 

“He’s dangerous, D.  The kind of dangerous you’re not accustomed to.”

 

“Honestly, William.  The way you talk, it’s as though you’re afraid of success.”

 

“With Kakistos on board, I’d be afraid for my life.”

 

“That’s exactly the kind of drive Ricky and I need from you, darling.  Now make the call and set up a meeting.”

 

“He’ll want a sample, you know.  Of the product. Before he buys in.”

 

Darla exhaled heavily and Buffy heard more rustling.  “Here.”  

 

“Reckon these aren’t really a box of matches.”

 

“No one can put a thing past you.” Her voice hummed with cold sarcasm.  “But they will cause a spark if you’re not careful.”

 

“He’ll want to test a round on an appropriate target as well.”

 

“I gave you plenty.  Now enough business. Tell me all about your summer.  Ricky’s just starved for news.”

 

Buffy realized that the “news” Darla’s slimeball spouse craved had to do with any reports Spike was privy to in which the police had taken a beating, and whether the crimes took place in the very town they lunched in to anywhere north up through Jacksonville.  Spike related a few tales, his voice flat and emotionless, going through the motions for Darla’s benefit and taking no joy in the telling.

 

“The Slayers need to go, Spike,” Darla said so conversationally as she dug into her salad that the detective almost missed the suggestion.  “Perhaps I’ll send them a message to back off in the meantime.”

 

Spike’s fork clattered against his plate.  “A message?”

 

“Nothing too grand.  Just a warning.”

 

“I have to live here, remember?”  Spike’s voice quivered. “If your message gets in any way linked to me, you can forget your introduction to Kakistos.  I can’t set up meetings when I’m in custody.”

 

“Relax,” Darla drawled, giggling girlishly.  “Don’t tell me your medication needs to be adjusted again.  I just don’t want you to be surprised. Now finish your lunch.  This is my treat.”

 

The remainder of the meal was thankfully given to small talk:  discussion about upcoming concerts and shows in Miami, the impending hurricane season and its impact on cruising paths, Darla and “Ricky’s” trip to the Dominican and other islands.  Buffy couldn’t focus on anything except the feeling of Spike’s rising anxiety as though it could be transmitted right through the wires of her headset. Every tap of his finger and catch in his breath let her know how he couldn’t wait to get out of there.

 

Given the promise of danger that had suddenly brewed right at that table, both of the Buffys couldn’t wait for the exact same thing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue from Season 7 Episode 18 "Dirty Girls," Season 6 Episode 13 "Dead Things."
> 
> Detective Buffy’s freedom fighting forgiveness belongs to the minister, Nadia Bolz-Weber. You can find these exact lines in her own words in her video "Forgive Assholes" here: https://www.makers.com/videos/5b0dd9e77cce6e349079ac04


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy and Faith plot, then Buffy and Spike talk... a lot. Plus, climb aboard our gangster's little houseboat.

“Kakistos, can you believe it?  Kakistos!”

 

“I know, B.”

 

“Kakistos!  He knows Kakistos!”

 

“Buffy…”

 

“He never breathed a word about that.  Not one! If he’s got access to a dirtbag like Kakistos, who else does he have up his sleeve?”

 

“Hey, he used to be IRA, remember?  I got a pretty decent inkling he could score with just about any munitions or arms dealer in the whole frickin’ world if he wanted to.  The thing is,” Faith said slowly, “in order to do that, he’s gotta stick his head outta the water, which could clue his still-mighty-pissed-off ex-gang in to where he’s hiding.”

 

The detective put her face in her hands.  Upon completion of the surveillance, she’d returned the van to the precinct, collected the tapes, changed back into her blouse-with-dress-pants combo (white with pinstriped black today) and cornered Faith in her office:  “We gotta talk.”

 

Talking in private and in the midst of one-hundred-degree weather proved a bit of a challenge, so the former partners walked in silence a couple of blocks to the Valle del Sol Art Museum of all places, and headed straight to an air-conditioned sitting area with glass doors and a skylight located way in the back of the building.  The Slayer had the feeling they’d met there before.

 

Now after a few minutes of pacing and ranting, the detective sunk into one of the wrought iron benches in the little glass room, empty except for two of the benches, a fountain, and a few well-placed sculptures and antique urns.

 

“Darla is setting him up, the fucking bitch,” she fumed.  “How much do you want to bet that the minute she has Kakistos’ cash that she cuts Spike right out of the picture?  Gets the Greek asshole to call up Spike’s former gang and arranges the kind of reunion that will really blow Spike away?”

 

“It depends,” Faith said with a sigh from her perch on the other bench.  “Spike might be more valuable to her if she blackmails him into making more meets with his old contacts.  She could keep her hooks in him for years. But that’s not all she’s doing.”

 

“What do you mean?” 

 

“Nest’s dying.  I don’t care what she says.  She’s lookin’ for Kakistos to be her Aristotle Onassis, trade up to Hubby #2.  Or #10 for all we know. I don’t disagree that she has plans for Spike but she’s making plans for herself, too.  The thing is, B, she’s never gonna get that far. We’ll make sure of it.”

 

The detective rested her elbows on her knees, head bent forward.  Nervously, her fingers worried the edges of her long ponytail. “The last I knew, Kyros Kakistos wouldn’t set foot on U.S. soil.  He’s got too many charges against him to risk it.”

 

“He’s also a greedy, arrogant fuck.  No way he’s gonna trust one of his minions to check out Darla’s operation for him.  He’ll want to take a gander of that with his one good eye.” Faith’s mouth twisted in a grim smile.  “We can count on him being in town to see how the bullets are made and put his money down.”

 

Buffy looked up.  “That’s so stupid.  Gangsters these days use hired guys for money exchanges.”

 

“Crackpot’s a traditionalist.” Faith shrugged.  “Old as dirt and set in his ways. I always thought it would get him killed.”

 

“Do we want him dead or do we want him pinched?”

 

“That’s for the chief to decide.  It’s gonna get a whole mess of Feds here, you can count on that.”

 

“So somehow, we’ve got to find a way to get Darla, Nest, and Kakistos together at the same time,” Buffy said in realization.  “That’s like, a perfect storm of crime that’s got the same odds as lightning striking in the same place twice.”

 

Faith stood up and took her turn at pacing with her hands behind her back.  “I hate to say it, but I’d rather have Nest than Darla. Without him, she’s gonna be unhinged and unpredictable, which is a damn good combination for making mistakes.  Although Nest’s gonna be too weak to run, making him easy pickings.”

 

“So say we like Nest and Kakistos for the meet.  Where?”

 

“It can’t be at Nest’s compound.  It’s out of our jurisdiction unless we get the Feds involved early, which could send up red flags and blow the whole deal.  It’s gotta be wherever they’re making the Dusters.”

 

“Which Spike doesn’t even know the location of, at this point.  Darla won’t tell him until she knows Kakistos is coming, I’m sure of it.  And when’s the last time we ever saw Nest and Darla together?”

 

“It’s always one or the other, they divide and conquer so only one gets nabbed.”  Faith nodded.

 

“Wait.”  Buffy sat back.  “What do we know about both Nest and Kakistos?”

 

Faith shrugged.  “They’re both ancient?”

 

“Yup, like you said:  old and set in their outdated ways.  What if someone plants the seed with Nest that he has to be there?  That Kakistos is the kind of traditionalist that won’t broker deals with women.”

 

“A misogynist fuck, you mean.  Yeah…” Faith considered it. “That would do it.  Someone could also plant the seed with Kakistos how Nest’s been under the weather lately.  How he could be the weakest link.”

 

“And that Nest needs to show up to prove how he’s in perfect health,” Buffy finished.  “That takes care of them. What about Darla? Think she’d stay at the compound?”

 

“Negative.  Like I said, Nest’s dying no matter how much lipstick she puts on that pig.  She’ll prop him up to play the big boss, but she’ll be close by in case he fades. Just a matter of where.”

 

The detective eyed her captain.  “Someone working for us needs to be with her then.”  

 

“The same someone who’s gonna play Johnny frickin’ Appleseed?”

 

Buffy huffed out a frustrated breath.  “Damn Spike. If only he weren’t such a master manipulator, we could keep him on the sidelines where he fucking belongs.”

 

“He wouldn’t have that, B,” Faith said softly.  “This is as much for him as it is for us. They ruined his life.  Blackmailed him into service. Made a drug that killed his girl without ever breaking their stride.  No, he wants payback. Might as well let him have it.”

 

Buffy looked down.  “Why do I feel like we’re using his need for revenge to get our own way?”

 

“Because we are.  Don’t kid yourself.  Our way takes those fuckers off the streets, though.  It’s the greater good.”

 

“And Spike’s the collateral damage?”

 

“We work this right, there will be no damage,” Faith assured her.

 

“There’s something else on those tapes you need to know, too:  Darla wants us gone.”

 

“Me and you?  The chosen two?”  Faith’s expression was startled and indignant.

 

“Right.  She plans on sending us a ‘message.’”

 

“Shit,” the captain hissed.  “This is all I need with our squad spread so thin.”  She opened her hands helplessly. “I guess I can get a couple of rooks to stand guard outside the precinct’s doors, beef up security in the mailroom.  Rope Finn into keeping eyes on the car lots.” She rolled her eyes. “Which he’ll never cease bitching about.” She glanced at Buffy. “You make sure you’re packing 24/7.”

 

“I always do.”

 

Just like that, the Slayer recalled what it felt like to have a target on her back - only thing was, she’d rarely felt it in broad daylight.  This world’s Darla didn’t have to wait for nightfall, she could attack at any time. And it would take more than a stake through the heart to eliminate her.

 

Faith glanced at Buffy, her expression grim.  “Let’s book it. Time to swap out the labels on the files:  Operation Dust in the Wind just became Operation Kissing Toast.”

 

***

 

Once back at the precinct, the detective didn’t even try to put up the pretense of distracting herself.  She sat at her desk with Spike’s file once again open to his photo and stewed. When her desk phone rang a minute before 5p.m., the sound made her jump in her seat and she had to catch her breath before she answered.  “Summers.”

 

“Slayer.” 

 

Buffy’s host body broke out in a cold sweat at the sound of Spike’s voice and she clutched the receiver in a death grip.  “You better be calling me on a pay phone.”

 

“That’s right.  You heard the tapes, I take it?”

 

“Oh, yeah.”

 

“You’re…taking precautions.”

 

With her free hand, she made a fist so tight over his picture that her knuckles cracked.  “Oodles.”

 

“I’m sorry about that,” he apologized, voice soft.  “I wish I - ”

 

“Save it,” she snapped, then let out a breath.  “You better be taking some precautions of your own.”

 

“Regarding our Greek friend?”  Spike chuckled. “He used to bounce me on his knee, he did.  Said some nasty bits to my cousins before I sailed and has been on the outs with their lot ever since.”

 

The detective leaned back in her chair.  “You mean he wouldn’t blow your cover?”

 

“I’m sure he would if the price were right.  But he’s dying to do business with Americans for what D’s selling.  Dealers in the Middle East can be rather unpredictable.”

 

Her mouth dropped open in realization.  “So you were shining Darla on about being scared?”

 

“Like a bright, shiny penny,” he preened.

 

“Well, good.”  The detective’s heart had stopped pounding quite as fast.  “That’s… good.”

 

He paused.  “You were worried.”

 

“N-not really,” she hedged.

 

“Don’t tease, pet,” he crooned to her in a voice now affectionate and content.  “Frettin’ over little old me. Honestly, I’m touched, love.”

 

She rolled her eyes.  “Yeah, you’re touched, all right - in the head.  Now you need to convince Nest that he has to meet with Special K in person - and vice versa.  Think about it - what are you going to mojo to make that happen?”

 

“Not a blessed thing.  They're gonna do it for me.”

 

“How do you figure?”  

 

His voice sounded amused.  “A little something called the Yoko Factor.”

 

“The who-what-huh?”  

 

“Please don’t ruin my high regard of you by telling me you’ve never heard of the Beatles,” he said, askance.

 

“Of course I know the Beatles.”  Her lips tipped up in mirth. “I’ve always had a soft spot for ‘Happiness is a Warm Gun,’ for some reason.”

 

“What a surprise,” he retorted.  “Point is, when their powerful little group broke up, everyone blamed Yoko, but the fact is the group split itself apart. She just happened to be there.”

 

“And you’re just gonna happen to be there.”

 

“That’s the idea,” he agreed.  “Nest will want to prove that he doesn’t have one foot in the grave and Kyros won’t trust anyone but himself.  Stubborn bastards to a fault, even if it means their own hides.”

 

“Would either of them trust you to make the exchange?  Bullets for cash?”

 

“Probably, but I’ll make like I need to babysit D.  Kyros’ll buy it. He barely tolerates women.”

 

The detective scowled.  “So he is a misogynist.”

 

“Fuck, yeah.  Racist, homophobe - you name it, if it doesn’t look like him, fuck like him, and have a dick, he hates it.”

 

Suddenly, her breath caught.  “Spike, be careful.”

 

“I will.  You as well, Buffy.”  His voice had turned somber.

 

“Um, something else.  About what Darla gave you.”  She hesitated. “How and when can we can meet?  It can’t be any place connected to either one of us.”

 

“Way ahead of you,” he hummed.  “Howsabout you come over to the marina?  Starboard side away from the big crowds, say noon tomorrow?  I’ll have a driver waiting for you.”

 

Buffy sat up.  “Tomorrow’s Saturday, Spike.”

 

“Good to know you’re intimate with a calendar, love.”

 

“That’s my personal time!” she exclaimed.  “What if I had plans?”

 

“And do you?” he asked, voice full of innocence.  She thought she heard him stifle a laugh when she remained silent.  “I’ll need to give the driver a name of who he’s picking up, so scare up a pseudonym quick.”

 

“Uh…”  She grinned.  “Mrs. Robinson.”

 

“That’s Simon and Garfunkel, pet.  Sure you don’t prefer Eleanor Rigby?”

 

“I’m good.”

 

“All right, missus.  What’s your first name, then?”

 

“Why do I need a first name?”  

 

“Because there needs to be something on the placard.  Like at an airport, yeah? There could be more than one Robinson and next thing you know, you could find yourself hauled off on a sodding dolphin tour rather than snuggling next to yours truly.  You want me to name you?”

 

She snorted.  “I think I can name myself.  Umm, I'll name me ... Joan.”

 

“Ugh.”

 

“Did you just ‘ugh’ my name?”

 

Spike sighed.  “You have to admit it’s rather bland, which is not the first adjective one thinks of with you.”

 

“That’s the point of a pseudonym, doofus,” she shot back, then paused to consider her choice.  “I like it. I feel like a Joan.”

 

“Suppose there could be worse monikers to ink on paper.  Not like ‘Buffy’ would give it that touch of classic elegance.”

 

She glared at the phone.  “So funny I forgot to laugh.”

 

“Tomorrow then.”  She heard him grin.

 

“Bye.”

 

The detective hung up and found that she could not stop smiling.  Her heart beat out a pleasant, elevated patter and her cheeks had warmed.  If the Slayer didn’t know better, she could’ve sworn she occupied the body of a teenage girl who’d just received a phone call from her crush.  

 

***

 

“There is officially no way to dress for this meeting,” Buffy complained on her cell phone to Faith the next morning.  Half of her closet lay on her bed and she still scurried around her room in her underwear. After the detective had passed out in the hammock per usual the previous night, the Slayer had plaited her shower-wet hair into a braid.  Now the tendrils were starting to unravel and Buffy blew the strands out of her face in frustration.

 

“Why are you dressing at all?”

 

“Uh, because an 800.03 is generally a big no-no.”

 

“Nudity’s only illegal in Florida if it’s vulgar or indecent,” Faith responded, “and I bet Spike wouldn’t think your cute little snatch is either.”

 

“Gross, Faith.”

 

“Why are you trippin’, though?  You’re meeting at a marina, right?  So dress for a marina. I know you’ve got a bathing suit.”

 

“Yeah, a little blue Speedo number that’s perfect if I wanna do laps,” Buffy lamented.  “Not exactly the right image to blend in with the snooty marina crowd.”

 

“You wanna borrow my black plunge?  It’s been a no-go for me since I went back on the pill and my boobs blimped up worse than the friggin’ Hindenburg.  I’ll even throw in a coverup to match.”

 

“Fine, yeah, okay, sure,” the detective muttered.  “I’ll swing by. Maybe you can also figure out my hair.  I don’t even remember taking a shower after I got home from the gym last night.  Never mind braiding it. No clue what I was thinking.”

 

“You’re goin’ through a whole lotta work for some felon who means nothing to you, B.”

 

Buffy stopped mid-stride.  “I never said he meant nothing.  But he doesn’t mean everything, either, and… look, clothing is armor and it’s what I need to get through this, all right?”

 

“10-4.  See you in five.”

 

Thirty minutes later, Detective Buffy Summers stepped out of her Outback and handed the keys to the Valle del Sol marina’s valet parking attendant, glancing at her reflection in the driver’s side mirror.  Faith had tousled Buffy’s hair out of her braid and it fell all around her shoulders in beautiful crimped waves, the detective balking at the style the whole time. _Hey, don’t hate on the ‘do_ , the Slayer grumbled inwardly.  _This was my go-to at UC Sunnydale when I was switching things up a little._   Ah, memories, the hairstyle of choice back in the days of chaining Spike up in Giles’ bathtub; when she and Spike got engaged.  What a goofy spell that had been. Will’s will had only stipulated that they get married, not make with the smoochies, yet Buffy remembered her overwhelming love for the vampire like some long-lost, vivid (and decidedly weird) dream.  It had felt like the easiest thing to do then, to love Spike, even with his annoying little barbs. Really, his big mouth had only made her want to kiss him more, if just to shut him up. Stupid magic.

 

“This is a plunge, all right,” she muttered to herself.  “Diving in straight past cleavage and aiming for my belly button without passing ‘Go.’”  The little flounce on the bottom conjured the image of a 1950s pinup sex kitten in typical Faith style.  The detective pulled the cover up, really just a lace and chiffon robe, closer across her chest and awkwardly adjusted the egg-shaped pendant Faith had thrown over her head at the last minute.

 

“It’s heavy so it’ll keep the kimono from blowing open in the breeze,” Faith had explained.

 

“And zero Spike’s eyes in directly to my chest, like he needs any assistance there,” Buffy groused in response but there was no time left to play dress-up.  She could only slip on a pair of black espadrilles and high tail it to the marina.

 

***

 

Noontime Saturday at the Valle del Sol Marina meant crowds:  tourist families with kids and cameras eager to catch a glimpse of a dolphin; would-be snorkelers; wealthy couples dressed to the nines who gathered to take their boats out for the day.  The valet parking attendant was stationed in front of the marina’s Ocean Clubhouse and the detective stepped around him and out from under the wide green fabric awning toward an arrowed sign leading guests to “Taxis and Transportation.”  Sure enough, there were several white-uniformed marina employees holding up named placards with welcoming smiles. Buffy quickly found the young man holding Joan Robinson’s sign and made a beeline for him.

 

While the detective didn’t break her stride, the Slayer would’ve stumbled if not altogether stopped in her tracks because the boy ready to chauffeur her to Spike was none other than her own world’s late Jesse McNally.

 

“Welcome, ma’am!” said this reality’s Jesse brightly.  “You’re Mrs. Robinson?”

 

“That’s right,” the detective replied.  “Your car close by?”

 

“Uh,” Jesse faltered and his smile slipped.  “We’re not taking a car.”

 

She licked her dry lips, nervousness rising.  “Maybe there’s been a mistake then. I was told a driver would be waiting for me.”

 

His brightness returned.  “That’s me! I’m Jesse, pleased to meet you.”  He held out his hand and she gave it a brief squeeze.  “The taxi’s right over here.” He released his hand and bopped his palm on his forehead.  “Duh. Water taxi, that is.”

 

The detective’s eyebrows shot upward.  “ _Water_ taxi?”

 

“Well, yeah.  To Mr. Williams’ boat.  He’s a few miles out but it’ll go fast.”  Jesse took a few steps toward the docks and beckoned her.  “This way, ma’am.”

 

Williams.  So Buffy wasn’t the only one with a pseudonym.  She wondered what in the world the marina employees thought this Mr. Williams did for a living, with his diamond pinky ring and his boat and his international Berlitz accent.  At that, one sentence came through the detective’s thoughts to the Slayer loud, clear and in a seething, very familiar tone about a very familiar subject: _Damn that Spike!_

 

The marina’s water taxi that Jesse led her to could accommodate maybe eight passengers and had a canvas canopy with clear plastic sides.  “I can pull these back,” Jesse explained as he helped her aboard the boat, “but most ladies like to keep the top and sides on to keep the wind down and save their hair.”  He added a wink and the detective rolled her eyes.

 

“I was junior sail captain here six years running,” Buffy informed him.  “I’m used to wind.” Then she forced an ingratiating smirk. “But you do you.”

 

_Junior sail captain, huh?_ Why had those photos never made it into the cardboard boxes?  

 

“Wow, no kidding,” Jesse said as he started up the boat.  “That used to be a tough program. Good, but tough. I always wondered why the Ocean Club cut it.”

 

“Because the head of it cheated on his wife and had to sell his boat to pay alimony and child support,” she fired back.  “Hard to run a sailing program when you can’t even afford a marina membership.”

 

Jesse’s eyes widened at her blunt remark.  “Sheesh, that’s too bad. Did you know the guy well?”

 

“I thought I did.”  Buffy pulled dark sunglasses out of her black-and-white striped beach bag and slipped them on.  “He was my…” She hesitated. “My friend’s father.”

 

“Ouch.”  Jesse winced.  

 

_Ouch and then some,_ echoed the Slayer but she cringed for a much deeper reason.  The detective was keeping her cover while indulging in T.M.I. with this kid, though her feelings of hurt and personal betrayal tightening in her throat made one thing clear:  the cheating father in question wasn’t a friend’s. It was her own. No wonder she had looked over to the marina with such longing when she had her coffee at Rico’s. _I feel the same way about L.A._ , the Slayer thought.  _How it’s the graveyard where my old good life was laid to rest._

 

“I’ll keep the canopies on,” Jesse decided.   “Can I get you a bottled water for the ride over?” 

 

“No, thanks.  I’m good.”

 

“Okay!”  His chipper customer service smile returned.  “Get you there in a jiff.”

 

And he did.  The wind was on their side and the smaller size of the touring boat made for a quick trip out to an area of the sea that had been cordoned off for “Members Only,” according to the sign on the buoy next to the ropes.  Only six boats bobbed there, five in what appeared to be the nautical version of tail-gaiting, another one almost fully obscured behind them, and all of them not really “boats” at all. They were yachts.  

 

“Holy shit,” Buffy hissed.  “He lives on a fucking yacht.  I should’ve known.” Some houseboat.

 

Jesse cut the motor back and carefully steered around the yachts to reach Spike’s.  His wasn’t the largest, but it was by no means small, and even had a name written in gold script on the side.  Buffy whispered it to herself as it came into view: _Destiny_.

 

Waiting at the back of the ship was another smiling and familiar face.  With her blonde hair pulled back into a perky ponytail and her white-skirted marina uniform almost blinding in the sun, this world’s Harmony Kendall greeted them with a wave.

 

“Welcome to the _Destiny_!” she enthused, helping Jesse tether the water taxi.  “I’m Harmony. Let’s get you settled upstairs, shall we?”

 

Buffy hopped easily off the one boat to the other and Jesse gave her a salute.  “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Robinson.”

 

She pointed at him.  “Don’t go anywhere. This won’t take long.”

 

Harmony led the detective up a few stairs to the waiting sitting area on the top-most section of the boat and indicated the built-in white leather benches.  “Please sit down. Mr. Williams will be up shortly. Can I get you something to drink?”

 

“I’m fine.  I’m just here for a quick…meeting.”  Rather than relaxing while she waited, the detective chose to spend her time pacing, her canvas beach bag handles growing damp in her sweaty palms and her thoughts once again loud enough for the Slayer to hear:  _an awful lot of fucking work just to pick up a bullet.  What the hell is he thinking?_

 

“Welcome aboard, love,” rumbled a voice behind her.

 

She turned to face the man speaking.  His blonde and brown hair was wet and slicked back.  He wore sunglasses - God, just like Will Pratt’s in Nashville.  He also wore a white short-sleeved fishing shirt unbuttoned down the length of his unfairly muscled chest, paired with khaki swim trunks.  His flawless skin had browned in the sun to the color of warm caramel and he absolutely did not freckle. The Robbie Crusoe of the mobsters.

 

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he took her in.  “Fuck Buffy, you’re stunning.” 

 

“What the hell are you doing?” she snapped.

 

“What?  I’m delivering on the little something you requested.”  

 

“No, you delivered me here.  Not clear on the reasoning.”

 

He shrugged.  “I’m not much of a land lover these days.  Besides, it’s a beautiful afternoon on calm seas.  When was the last time you were out?”

 

“It’s…been a while,” she admitted.

 

“Care for the grand tour?”

 

“Not even a tiny bit.  A yacht? Really?” She walked back over toward the table, where he had placed a domed silver tray, napkins, and plates. “Couldn’t you be a normal bad guy and get your hot little hands on a nice Caddy or maybe a HumVee?”

 

“You want me to have a hummer, Slayer, I can absolutely accommodate you.  Meantime, you can put my hot little hands wherever you fancy.” Spike grinned and slid into a seat, arm resting on the back of the leather bench.  

 

She opened her palms to him.  “Exhibit A folks, proof that crime does indeed pay.  The Feds are gonna seize this, FYI. Better soak up the last few weeks you’ll get with your little honey…” She rolled her eyes at seeing the monogrammed cocktail napkins on the table.  “ _Destiny_.”

 

“She’s not stolen.  She’s paid for and she’s mine.  Several times over, point of fact.”

 

Buffy folded her arms.  “Paid for how, exactly?”

 

“Won, if you must know.  In poker. Transferred to me fair and bloody square, as legal as your own sweet name.”

 

“Gambling is illegal, Spike.”

 

“Not where I played.”

 

“But a yacht?  Someone actually put this up as collateral for a card game?”

 

“I’m not responsible for some wanker’s misplaced priorities.  And I play to win, love,” he added with a purr.

 

“If you enter WITSEC, you won’t be able to take this with you.  The boat will get impounded.”

 

“Not if I sign it over for safekeeping before I scarper.” 

 

“Who would you sign this off to?  Who - in your life in particular - would be ethical enough to take possession of a yacht on your behalf and actually get it back to you once you got settled?”

 

“No one who’s engaged in a life of crime, obviously,” he said easily.  “So no one you’d have to worry your pretty head over.”

 

She shook her head, rolling her eyes behind her sunglasses. “And you wonder why we don’t trust you.”

 

“I’ve never wondered that.  I know exactly why I’m not trustworthy.  I know what I’ve been, what I’ve done. Now?  I’m just a bloke who can lend a hand, if you'll let me.”

 

“In exchange for zero time served and fresh new government-sponsored feet.”

 

He cocked his head at her.  “You saying that it’s not worth it?  Me being in the world in exchange for this town going back to the kind of place where the worst lawlessness is a bit of graffiti and expired parking meters?”

 

“There should be consequences for what you’ve done, Spike, is what I’m saying.”

 

“So my debt isn't paid in your eyes.   Begs the question, Slayer. How far down does a bloke have to go to satisfy you?”  The faint growl in his voice set her nerves alight.

 

His innuendo was clear, one she chose to ignore.  “It’s got nothing to do with me. It’s about society’s rules, not mine.”

 

He grunted.  “Bloody well through living by society's rules.”

 

“And that’s your problem!” the detective exclaimed.  “That’s exactly why witness protection will never work for you.”

 

“You in good with society, Slayer?  How ‘bout you tell society how I’ve buried parents, mates, and the love of my young life?   How I’ve been shot, stabbed, beaten, kicked, cheated, burned, blackmailed, lied to, and stolen from - among some of the more shining highlights of my existence. To make this deal with the Feds, I’ll be giving up my name, my identity, and as you so sympathetically reminded me, my home.  Yet precious society says it’s not enough? Bugger that.”

 

The Slayer noticed how he still hadn’t reminded the detective of what could possibly be the greatest tip toward good on the precarious balance of his scale:  saving her life - which he could’ve so easily thrown in her face numerous times. Yet much like how the Slayer’s own Spike had protected Dawn, it didn’t seem to be something he’d done to earn credit but just something he’d done as a matter of course - oh, and for her, not to mention himself, as her Spike had admitted when he thought she was the BuffyBot:  “ _Because Buffy...anything happened to Dawn, it'd destroy her. I couldn't live, her being in that much pain. I'd let Glory kill me first. Nearly bloody did.”_

 

_I couldn't live, her being in that much pain._

 

He didn’t live, though, not like she did with the heartbeat and the pulse and the breathing and the body temperature.  But he had a life - one he would’ve gladly relinquished for her. One that wouldn’t be worth living if it meant her suffering.   _Damn, but we’ve done a bang-up job of coloring outside our lines_ , the Slayer thought.  _Both of us are guilty of it.  He came to town to kill me and now he can’t stand to see me hurt.  I begged Xander and Giles to tell me he came to a dusty ending and I ended up kissing him instead.  What the hell is wrong with us?_

 

Apparently the same thing that was unfolding with this detective and her criminal.

 

Because it was not a huge stretch of the imagination to intuit that this Spike wanted out of gangsterland for himself, but also for the detective.  An officer of the law could never knock boots with a known felon, no matter how many bodice-ripper romance novels teased the idea, and he knew it. His M.O. came through loud and clear:  stop the crime and give Buffy exactly what she wanted professionally so that his new civilian self could give them both what they wanted personally. Romantically. Sexually. Even d) all of the above.

 

Talk about a gamble.  For both of them.

 

“There are plenty of people who’ve had horrible things happen to them and never break the law or sell their souls to mobsters,” Buffy told him.  

 

“And they’ve never managed to do a speck of real good, either, I’d wager.  Look, dunno when you became such a fangirl of the milk-and-water middle ground but it don’t suit you.  Only those who’ve done real evil have any clue what real goodness even is.”

 

“And welcome to the nonsensical portion of our trip out to sea,” she muttered.

 

“You’re right, Slayer, that oft-times, crime does pay.  I still remember my first real score. Made me feel alive for the very first time.  It’d be the same for anyone who’s tried on my world and seen how good it feels to be a creature of that darkness.  A lone wolf. Sole survivor. You can be the biggest, baddest, motherf- ” He cut himself off with a grin. “And no one will stop you.”  He stroked the leather of the bench under his hand like the pelt of a pet. “That’s the recipe for my hero.”

 

“Your _hero_?” she gaped at him.

 

“A person like that’s weighed the sides and still chooses to sacrifice the lure of evil for good.  They know what it means to have anything they want and be able to take it without question. Thing is, they choose not to.”

 

Slayer Faith’s line from years ago pounded into Buffy’s skull and by some chance, the detective picked up on the thought and grasped the words’ full meaning as she whispered: “Want, take, have.”

 

Spike smiled wolfishly.  “Now you’re gettin’ it. Part of ‘em will always want the darkness - even be a little bit in love with it.  But to be that close to it and not take it, to feel it surrounding you, knowing you could reach out and grab it, hold it, make it yours… and still have the strength to turn away?  That’s not someone who’s settling for goodness. Someone who’s helping the helpless because they don’t fucking know any better. No, my hero knows how good the dark feels and steps out of the shadows anyway.  By choice. Eyes clear.”

 

Feeling slightly dizzy, Buffy licked her lips.  “You can’t believe any hero like that exists.”

 

“I do.  Rather hoped I could show you how I could be yours.”

 

At that the detective jumped to her feet, hands curling into fists and every muscle primed to flee.

 

Too much.  It was too much, with the op barely off the ground and her feelings for Spike still all over the map.  She stumbled blindly toward the stairs in the hopes of seeing the water taxi still tethered to the side.  

 

“Buffy, I sent Jesse back to the marina when I came up,” he called to her as she reached the stair railing.   “You’re stuck out here with me for at least a little while. Might as well make the best of it.” His voice dipped low in defeat.  “Please stay.”  Then, teasingly: “I’ll even attempt to behave myself.”

 

Slowly, she turned to face him.  He’d pushed his sunglasses up to the top of his head and his blue eyes searched hers desperately.  

 

“This is not going to be an all day excursion,” she warned him.

 

“Never said it was, love.  Now sit your pretty self down.  Grab a plate.”

 

Cautiously, the detective slid into the bench seat opposite him with the small table the only thing between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snippets from Season 3 Episode 14 "Bad Girls," Season 4 Episode 20 "The Yoko Factor," Season 6 Episode 8 "Tabula Rasa," Season 4 Episode 9 "Something Blue," Season 7 Episode 2 "Beneath You," Season 5 Episode 7 "Fool for Love," Season 5 Episode 18 “Intervention,” Season 5 Episode 10 “Into the Woods,” Angel the Series Season 1 Episode 3 "In the Dark." 
> 
> An 800.03 is the Florida statute against the exposure of sexual organs.
> 
> Feel like taking a ride? You can rent Gangster Spike's sweet sloop for a mere $30K a week: https://www.yachtcharterfleet.com/luxury-charter-yacht-26319/destiny.htm


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two of the conversation at sea, in which we dive a little deeper into our couple's history.

With a flourish, Spike removed the lid from the tray on the table and indicated the food arranged artfully on the platter.  “Carpaccio?”

 

Buffy felt her host body make a face.  “Ew.”

 

“It’s not raw beef,” he told her.  “It’s fresh tuna.”

 

She glared at him.  “Ewww,” she enunciated.

 

“Suit yourself,” he chuckled, helping himself to a plate.  “Drink?” Then he held up his hand. “Allow me. Harmony?” He called over his shoulder.  “Bring me my usual and my guest an ice water with lemon and lime, please.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Spike picked up the strips of seasoned tuna in his long, elegant fingers and sucked them between his lips.  Inwardly, the Slayer’s mouth watered. He made it look so delicious. The fish, of course - not his mouth. Or his lips.  Or any other part of him. At all. Really.  

 

“When’d you give up on fish?” he asked, his tongue becoming terribly distracting as he licked his fingertips like a cat.

 

“A while ago.  There’s tons of mercury in tuna, you know.”

 

“That’s why this is a treat.  I thought you’d enjoy it.”

 

She narrowed her eyes at him.  “Is this a date?”

 

_Here we go again,_ the Slayer thought, her consciousness prickling at the replay of yet another conversation from her own past.

 

But instead of the mock-incredulousness her own Spike had tried to dupe her with, the Spike in front of her now caught his bottom lip with his teeth while he huskily delivered the climax of that particular exchange: “Do you want it to be?”  

 

“Oh my god,” the detective groaned along with the Slayer inside, both wincing as though in pain.  “Spike, I met you here for one reason only. To get the…information I need to do my job. You’ve gone and orchestrated this…” she gestured helplessly, “…rendezvous and for what?  You thought you would just get me here and be with me?”

 

“First time for everything,” he mumbled, easing dejectedly back in his seat with eyes to the floor. 

 

“How long until someone from the marina can pick me up?” she demanded.  When he pursed his lips without answering, she bristled. “ _How long_?”

 

Spike scowled, not meeting her eyes.  “I told him to radio me in an hour.”

 

“An _hour_?” she cried.  She collected herself and eased out a breath.  “Try half that. This is all you get. So call it in.”

 

“All right, pet.”  A small smile played on his lips. “Thirty minutes it is.”

 

At that moment, the Slayer realized that this Spike had thought she’d be leaving immediately.  A half an hour was the generous end of the deal. He would take whatever amount of time she’d give him - and gladly.  

 

Harmony appeared back on deck with a tray holding a martini glass with olives and a pint glass full of water, ice, and citrus fruit.

 

“Harm, would you radio the marina and ask them to bring the boat back in half an hour, please?” Spike asked as he took the drinks from her.  “My guest has a previous engagement.”

 

“Right away,” the girl answered before she left.

 

Spike handed Buffy her water.  “Cheers, love. To your eventual retirement.”

 

“I’ll drink to that,” the detective said, lifting her glass in a careful toast before sipping.

 

“I have to admit I was surprised when I heard.  You don’t look the early bird special type.”

 

“Age has nothing to do with it.  It’s how much you can pay into your pension.  Between the military, Miami, and here, I made it happen.”

 

“So you won’t miss work?”

 

“Not enough to stay.”

 

“What’s next for you then?”

 

“Um, I haven’t really decided.”  She drank her water. “I might teach.”

 

“How to be a raging control freak in five easy steps?”

 

She glowered at him.  “Ha-ha.”

 

“Just playing, love.  You’ve got loads to impart.  Don’t rightly see what’s in it for you, though, aside from a scant paycheck.”

 

“Knowing that I’m doing some good.”

 

“That’s all you’ve ever done.  Don’t you wanna see what else is out there?”

 

“I know what’s out there, believe me.  If I ever forget, I’ve got criminals to remind me.”  She smirked tightly. “Just like you.”

 

“Not me for long.  I said I’m finished.”

 

“You say a lot.  It’s actually one of your worst qualities.”

 

Spike’s expression lit up.  “Oh, cataloging me, are you?  Do tell.” He clapped his hands together in glee.  “What does it for you, then? My cheekbones? My rock hard abdominals?  My scathing wit? Don’t be shy now, tell me how you really feel.”

 

“I guarantee you won’t want that.”

 

He opened his arms magnanimously.  “We’re in the middle of the big, beautiful sea, love.  Guarantee all your secrets are safe here. No one’s pulling out handcuffs.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Yet.”

 

Buffy tapped her foot.  “Depends on how long you keep yapping.”

 

He exhaled heavily and dropped his arms, along with his act.  “Look. You know my story. All I’ve known for years is the life.  Wasn’t so much brought up with it as I was sired. I can barely live with what I did.  It haunts me.” He shivered slightly despite the warmth of the sun. “All of it.”  

 

“I’ve seen your rap sheet and yeah, it’s hard to see anyone coming back from that.  Assault. Murder. Drug dealing. Really I…” She chewed her lip. “I don’t have the words.”

 

“Neither do I.”  He sighed. “I can't say 'sorry.’ Can't use 'forgive me.’ All I can say is:  Buffy, I've changed.”

 

“I believe you.”

 

His eyes flew to hers.  “Well, that’s something.”

 

“I just don’t know what you’ve changed into.”

 

“Maybe to who I was always meant to be.  You ever think of that? To be the kind of man who would - ” He coughed and gulped at his drink.  “To be a kind of man.”

 

“Witness protection will do that for you?”

 

“I know it will.  Here…” He stood up and reached into the pocket of his swim trunks and pulled out a box so small, for a moment the Slayer had the wild thought he was about to drop to one knee and propose.

 

“Two enough?”  He held out a black ring box but the Slayer knew it contained something far from jewelry inside.  Hesitating only a moment, her host body nodded, plucked it from his palm and secreted it in her bag.

 

“Spike, be very careful,” she warned, feeling suddenly nervous.  “With… all of them.”

 

He rose to his feet slowly as he took his sunglasses off to fiddle with the earpieces.  “You know something I don’t?”

 

“I just have a really bad feeling.”

 

“Don’t discount those.  They’re why you’re still alive.”

 

“And thanks to you,” she whispered.

 

“Best thing I ever did.  Not like there’s a helluva lot else to compete with it.”

 

“But Angel was your friend.”

 

Spike stood in front of her with his hands on his hips and blocking out the sun.  “ _Friend_?” he spat.  “Hardly. I was his best work.”

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

“Drusilla brought me into the family but Angel… Angel made me a monster.  Not like I did much to stop him. But it was the deal, see. The trade. They got me.  So I could have her.”

 

The Slayer thought about that.  Dru had indeed sired Spike but she had always seemed a bit too unhinged to offer Spike much in the way of instruction.  Perhaps this had been the way it had happened for her Spike, too. Plus, Angel had been the one to sire Drusilla and Buffy couldn’t imagine that bond being overwritten for a lover.  Not even one as attentive as William the Bloody.  

 

“God, Spike.”  The detective traced the beads of water clinging to the glass.  “I’m really sorry.”

 

Spike stabbed his sunglasses back over his eyes.  “Reckon that should be my line to you. Seeing’s how I never told you in person.”

 

A lump grew in Buffy’s throat.  “Four months coming up.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Thanks for the flowers, by the way.  They were gorgeous.” 

 

He stopped mid-reach to the tray of tuna to look at her.  “How you know I sent flowers? Not all of those arrangements at the funeral service had cards attached.”

 

“Yours didn’t either.  But daisies, alstroemeria, and lily of the valley?  Those were Mom’s favorites.” She gave a smile that hurt to make it.  “Leave it to her hot cocoa buddy to remember that.”

 

The Slayer froze.  Joyce. And Spike. Spike and Joyce.  In this world, it appeared they’d been good friends and she couldn’t wait to hear all about it.  Somewhere in the far recesses of her memory, disjointed pieces had started to come together: like how she’d smell the faint hint of cigarettes leftover in the kitchen some nights - not like a person had been actively smoking in there, more like it had wafted in on someone’s clothes.  Or the times she’d hear Dawn complain that they were out of little marshmallows after she swore there’d just been a full bag in the cupboard. Buffy had seen Spike with her mother only a handful of times. Whatever had transpired that she hadn’t seen?

 

Meanwhile, Spike relaxed at this topic.  He sat back down across from her and flipped his sunglasses up again, knitting his fingers together to lean toward her eagerly.

 

“She tell you about all that, did she?”

 

“It was one of the last conversations we had.  She…she liked you. She appreciated you, which was something even better when it came to her.  I’d accuse you of trying to worm your way into my life again except you two knew each other before I even left Miami, didn’t you?”  She tsked under her breath. “After all you and I talked about and you never said…”

 

“I told you I talked with her when she volunteered as a docent at the museum, that she was a helluva lady, and I hated like hell she was sick,” he countered. 

 

“Without ever bringing up that you’d been discussing art over chocolate caliente for _years_.”

 

Spike picked up his glass and leaned back.  “I liked the lady,” he said finally. “She was decent. Didn't put on airs.  Only knew her as ‘Joyce’ on her nametag for months; months more until I knew she’d retired from I.A., although she’d always known who I was.  Even then, she never treated me like a freak.”

 

“A freak,” Buffy repeated blankly.  The Slayer wondered what kind: a gangster who killed his own for a detective?  A criminal who adored a lady of the law? A vampire who loved a Slayer? The detective cleared her throat.  “What part of you is freakish exactly?”

 

He cocked a brow at her.  “A Paxilled gouger rubbin’ elbows in the watercolors gallery with the retired lieutenant of internal affairs?  Not exactly a friendship made in heaven.”

 

“Not sure what you just called yourself there.”

 

“Irish slang, sorry.  Paxil’s one of the meds I’m taking for nerves.  Took,” he amended tiredly. “A gouger’s a criminal.”

 

“So you’re saying anxious criminals can’t be art lovers.”

 

“I visited the museum the first time because I was walking around town when the heat got to me.  I’d just moved here, it was summer. Felt so hot thought I’d burst into flames.” He sipped his drink thoughtfully.   “I kept comin’ back because I was just…lost. I’d wanted out of the family since the day I’d gotten in. Only thing that kept me on two legs was knowin’ there was more to life, things that drugs and crime and evil couldn’t touch.  Beautiful things that mattered. That could last. Took refuge in art like it could save me somehow. Your mum was the only one who agreed.”

 

Buffy thought about that for a few moments.  “She would,” she said finally.

 

Waiting a few beats until the tension died, Spike hitched his neck to crack the vertebrae and then asked,  “How come her art bug didn’t bite you?”

 

She huffed out a grunt.  “Believe me, it wasn’t for her lack of trying.  I mean, I appreciate it, but making art’s just not my jam.”

 

“What is then?  Aside from being Valle del Sol’s best gumshoe.”

 

“There was nothing else, you know that.  I had Dad’s legacy to continue and Mom’s reputation to uphold.”

 

“Think outside the box, love.  Isn’t there a thing that lit you up as a wee one?  Dance, music, throwin’ clay on a ruttin’ potter’s wheel…”

 

“I wrote,” she blurted.  “Once upon a time.”

 

“Fairy tales?”

 

“Nooo.  Some truly awful poetry.”  

 

His eyes danced.  “Rather love a peek at that.” 

 

“The emo stylings of teenage me?  Negative.” 

 

“Teenage.”  He cocked his head.  “Nothing more recent then?”

 

“God, no.  Pretty hard to compose sonnets when you’re up to your eyeballs in paperwork and dead bodies.”

 

“That’s when you need the sonnets the most.  You ever gonna write again?”

 

She sipped her water.  “I don’t think I have much to say.”

 

“Reckon you just caught a case of temporary laryngitis.”

 

“Oh really, smarty,” she challenged.  “So how do I get my voice back?”

 

“You could suss out why you lost it in the first place.  Or just bloody well start screaming.”

 

“Is that what you do with your photos?  Scream?”

 

_The camera.  The pictures.  She knew - they meant something._

 

He considered the question.  “Of a sorts. The photos aren’t… what’s in the camera ain’t the main event.  It’s what they inspire. When my brain goes haywire and I can’t fill in the gaps, the photos ground me.  Remind me where I was and where I’m going. “ 

 

“Plus, having the camera around your neck steadies you,” she realized aloud.

 

“It’s something for me to keep my hands busy.  And if it ever gets too much to see with my own eyes, I can use it as a filter.  Escape if I have to.”

 

“You used to take a lot of pictures of me.”

 

His eyes flashed to hers.  “I did.”

 

“Not so much anymore.  How come?”

 

“You hated it,” he chuckled. “Caught so many stills of your patented brassed-off expression I could sketch it in my sleep.”

 

But that wasn’t the real reason and the Slayer knew it.  He joked but his eyes stayed solemn. Operating on the rationale that the more anxious he was the more photos he took, it stood to reason that the detective had ceased making him nervous. Even without his camera close, he seemed to be quite relaxed with her.  “Sorted,” as her Spike would say. In fact, this Buffy might have replaced his need for the camera altogether. She herself had become a safe haven to him. No wonder he craved her. Not only for whatever love he claimed, but for the calm in him she inspired.

 

“I have a boxful of pics of your mum if you want them,” he continued, rubbing the back of his neck.  “I was going to use them for a project but..” 

 

“Oh, please do,” Buffy cut in.  “She would’ve loved that.”

 

His pretty face flooded with pain.  “Can’t. Maybe someday.”

 

“Make me copies, okay? That way if you ever change your mind, you’ll still have them.”

 

“But it’d make such a good excuse to meet up again in the future, love,” he teased.

 

“Somehow you strike me as not needing any excuses for anything.”

 

“Never said it was for me.  It’s perfect reasoning for you.  You’d be doin’ me a favor, you would.  And that’s your specialty.”

 

“‘My specialty?’” She hitched a brow.  “For what?”

 

“For getting what you really want while not needing to feel guilty about giving in.  You rationalize it as doing someone a favor. It’s genius, really,” he continued, lighting a cigarette from the box resting next to him and inhaling with smug satisfaction.  

 

“I don’t do that.”  Buffy gaped at him. “I’ve never done that.”

 

He tilted his head again maddeningly to her.  “Oh, really? How’d Captain Faith get you to come back to the force, then?”  

 

“That’s…totally irrelevant,” she argued.  “Plus, you said you wouldn’t work with anyone else if I didn’t stick around.”

 

“I had to say that.” He exhaled a smoke ring, examining his buffed nails with a nonchalant ease that made the detective’s body burn.  “Because I knew it would work. You could blame me for being the arsehole, tell yourself you couldn’t let your poor squad down, and still keep your dignity.”

 

She folded her arms.  “My dignity about what?”

 

“Working with me.  When we’re together, I know you feel something.”

 

“You’re a felon, Spike.  It’s called revulsion. Every Spidey sense of mine is going off the rails because all the cop in me can think of is throwing you down and cuffing you.”

 

His expression flooded with the kind of predatory desire of a cat before the pounce.  “Oh, baby. That sounds more like the woman in you than the cop.” 

 

She closed her eyes for a moment, her body seething with annoyance and that now-familiar repressed arousal.  “How do you bring every conversation back to something resembling sex?”

 

“It’s a talent.  One you need to experience much more of and will, if I have my say.”

 

“Which you don’t,” she retorted.

 

Spike gave an exaggerated pout that only made him more damn adorable.  “But you’d be doing me such a favor, pet.”

 

“Nice try!  Not going to happen!”  She couldn’t help but laugh.  

 

“Knew I could get a grin.” He smiled back.  

 

Harmony returned with a dish of green olives and two slim glass pitchers on her tray.  She refilled their glasses and left the olives behind. Spike popped one into his mouth, then flicked the ash of his cigarette nervously over the side of the boat as his own smile faded.  “It’s been a while for me, this. Havin’ a real conversation.” He watched Buffy glance back at Harmony and he rolled his eyes. “Marina staff don’t count. They’re gettin’ paid to talk to me.”

 

“So am I.”

 

“If that’s true then I’m underestimating the contributions of the good Florida taxpayers.”

 

“I guess I could sit here in silence with you until this op is done but…” 

 

“You like me.” Spike’s face lit up in surprised delight.  “Like mother like daughter.”

 

Buffy leaned back warily.  “Let’s just say you can be mildly entertaining sometimes.”

 

“I’ll take it.”  He grinned in triumph and dear God, but the man could make the simple act of being told he was somewhat liked look as though he’d won the lottery.  He nodded to the platter. “So if not fish then what? Harm can whip you up a stellar grilled cheese.”

 

“I’m good, really.”

 

“Three kinds of cheese.  Homemade bread. Danish butter.”

 

“Tempting, but I’ll pass.”

 

His expression had turned pleading.  “But Buffy, you love cheese.”

 

“Yeah, well, I love avoiding fat and cholesterol more.  Heart disease is a Summers clan staple.”

 

“You can’t be saying you gave it up altogether?”  With the crestfallen look on his face, the Slayer would’ve thought the detective had just told him that she’d decided to stop celebrating Christmas and snuggling cute puppies.

 

“It’s just cheese, Spike.”

 

“No, it bloody well is not just cheese,” he said in sudden anger.  “Why do you do this to yourself? Why do you purposely keep yourself from the things you love?”

 

“Why do you even give a fuck?” she snapped.

 

“‘ _Why_?’”  With one more agonized glance at her, he grabbed the martini glass and slugged the contents in one gulp before rising to his feet again.  “You know why. Thought that was the obvious.”

 

“Spike, whatever you think you’re feeling for me, it’s not love.”

 

He narrowed his eyes.  “Oh, you’re the expert on that, are you?  Loving Buffy Summers? Knowing what she wants.  Giving her what she needs. Face it: you’re rot at it, Slayer.  Seein’ you with you would make any convict long for a bloody jail cell.  You’re in the worst kind of prison, sweetheart, and you’ve built the walls around you with your own two hands.”

 

The detective jumped to her feet, clenching her fists again.  “Shut your mouth.”

 

“Touched a nerve, didn’t it?  Fresh in the knowledge that I’d know how to give you what you crave and that you’ll never have it as good as me?”

 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she growled, though inwardly, this body ached with the thought it could be true.

 

“It burns, huh?”  His eyebrows spiked victoriously.  “You can act as high and mighty as you like but I know where you live now, Slayer.  I've tasted your fear, your pain, your grief. Your hope. We almost died together.”  The anger bled from his voice and was replaced with a childlike plea: “Were you there with me?”

 

Heart pounding, chest heaving, the detective stared at him and…faltered.

 

“I was,” she admitted softly.

 

“We lived, Buffy.  Let yourself live, already.  And stop with the bloody bulletproof routine for a second. We'd all be the better for it. You especially.”

 

Awkwardly, the detective sank back into her seat and reached for the glass of water, taking long swallows while Spike stood and watched her, his own ribcage rising and falling while the last of his cigarette burned between his fingers.  

 

Her eyes darted around nervously.  “Did we seriously just have an argument about cheese?”

 

“Reckon it went a bit deeper than that but…” He broke out in a rueful grin.  “I’ve thrown punches for less.”  

 

“Yeah, you have,” she replied but when she glanced at him, she was smiling.  

 

“I lied by the way.”  He skipped a beat. “Harm’s grilled cheese is a waste compared to mine.  That’s what years at culinary arts college will yield, the ability to craft a bang-up sandwich.”  He took one last drag on his cigarette and stabbed it out in the nearly-full ashtray resting on the side of the boat.

 

She looked at him in surprise.  “You were gonna be a chef?”

 

“Sometimes I pretend I still am.  Need someone to cook for, though. A person who’s got an appetite for more than spring mix.”

 

The sound of an outboard motor interrupted them then, as the marina shuttle with Jesse’s smiling face buzzed toward them from a few feet away.

 

“Guess that’s my ride,” Buffy said wistfully and the Slayer could feel her real and true disappointment. 

 

“All too soon,” Spike murmured.  

 

She slung her bag over her shoulder while Spike walked to the back of the yacht and helped Jesse tether the boat.  Slowly, she got to her feet and made her way to the waiting skiff.

 

“Watch your step,” Spike warned and grasped her hand as she passed by him to climb on board.  

 

“Thanks for today,” she said, stepping carefully into the bobbing boat and buckling herself in.  “I appreciate all the…information.” She patted her bag meaningfully.

 

Hands in his pockets, he rocked back on his bare heels.  “You’ll be in touch.”

 

“You know it,” she chirped back and gave him a quick salute.  “Fair winds and following seas.”

 

He winked.  “For you as well, pet.”

  
  


***

 

Once back on land, Detective Buffy dreamily meandered to the valet parking area, barely noticing the wait before her car appeared as if by magic in front of her.  In a daze, she slipped into the sweltering car and started driving without purpose. “Must have a little bit of heat stroke,” she mumbled, holding her hand to her forehead. 

 

_Uh-huh.  Pull the other one, lady.  I’m calling this Spike Stroke though, jeez, I can’t really blame you.  He’s a honey and he’s crazy about you. He’d be giving up everything he is for you._

 

_Giving up everything he is.  For you._

 

Back in Sunnydale, Spike had offered to cash in his Evil Express Card (don’t leave your lair without it) for her and her love, no questions asked.  She hadn’t taken that seriously because she couldn’t take _him_ seriously (“dead soulless evil things can’t love” put on the infinite Slayer loop).  But that foundation felt a little shaky these days, after feeling what the other Buffys had for their Spikes - who were (damn them all) essentially the same guy colored with a few variations of the paintbrush.  She knew now how her Spike wasn’t a thing and how he truly loved her…which meant that him giving up evil for her became a real possibility. As real as a criminal going legit for a cop.

 

_What does Spike have without his fangs, his gunning for me and his Slayer of Slayers title?  His crypt. Hanging out with Dawn. Helping the gang with patrols. And...me. Not gunning for me, just…me.   He didn’t even mean to stay in Sunnydale, he got trapped here because he got chipped. I guess he stayed because he couldn’t survive anywhere else as a neutered vampire.  Although he did try to get the chip out…a couple of times and then…_

 

In a flash, Buffy was thrust back in time to the Sunnydale High School library, hearing Angel warn them about Spike:  _Once he starts something he doesn't stop._ Except Spike had stopped his pursuit of removing the chip - why?  Perhaps because he’d found another goal instead? Another pursuit… _Me.  He’d rather be chipped and powerless and all on his lonesome on the hellmouth drinking pig’s blood, than to get the chip out and go.  Because of me. That’s all that’s been holding him, really, when you get down to it. Not the chip. Not anymore. Me. Giving up all that he is and he’s known.  For me._

 

Her consciousness not even in the remote vicinity of her own Sunnydale and the Slayer had already begun to wig.  No wonder she hadn’t let herself be anything other than furious and disgusted with Spike, crushing any flicker of desire for him like an unwelcome bug.  Because this kind of love - this all-consuming, leave no prisoners, chuck your world behind you kind of love - was absolutely terrifying. _No wonder people call it obsession. No one does this - no one loves like this._ Except every Spike so far for every Buffy.  Present company included, ready to give up his identity right down to his damn name for the woman he loved.  

 

What would a girl do if she believed in that kind of love and it didn’t last?  What kind of decimating heartache would that cause? But what would happen if it did last?  To be fully and completely adored not from afar but live and in person forever…what would that be like?  _I’ve never had it, so damned if I should know but…_ She knew it would feel warm.  Glowing. Giving you the kind of confidence that you could take on anyone - or anything - and be supported.  Relaxed. And happy. Ridiculously, stupidly, permanently happy.  

 

Turning her attention back to Detective Buffy, the Slayer realized they were sitting in the car in the parking lot behind her loft.  Just sitting there. _What the hell are you doing?  Wait. Can you hear me? Are you thinking what I’m thinking?_

 

Abruptly, the detective pushed open the driver’s side door of her car and quickly headed up to the loft on a numb auto-pilot.  She stripped on the way to the bedroom, leaving the clothes she’d worn to the marina in a pile on the floor, tore her hair savagely into an elastic to make a severe ponytail, and began dressing in shorts, sports bra/tank, and running shoes.  She threaded her keys into the laces of one of her sneakers and bounded back outside into the stifling heat, panting at the ledge that led down the rusted stairs. _So like the edge of the tower_ , the Slayer realized.  _The same metal, looking out over the same horizon, only this time brighter - afternoon instead of night.  My last look before I leapt._

 

With a gulp, Detective Buffy paused.  Then she turned away from the stairs and walked back indoors, let herself back into the loft.  She entered the cool space, stepping over her clothing, went to the couch… and sat. The computer softly whirred.  The refrigerator hummed. The ice machine made a gentle clunk.

 

Her host had been ready to pound her body into some marathon of a run or several rounds of exercise, the Slayer figured, but something had stopped her.  Perhaps the defenses weren’t working anymore, the distractions she’d constructed weren’t enough. Then it hit her, what this body felt: she missed Spike - worse than ever.  The hollowness of his absence gnawed at her. His presence in her life and hers on his boat had been bright, dazzling, exciting, frustrating. Now here she was back in her space without him:  dark, cold, spare, and silent.  

 

_You want him.  Not just for the sexy times but for all the times - for how he looks and sounds, what he says and does - even when it makes you bonkers.  Maybe because he makes you bonkers. Because he makes you feel alive and in all the colors. You want him and you don’t know if you should or if you can even give him what he wants - if he could even give you a speck of what you want. But he’s the only one who comes close and I have no idea what to tell you about that._

 

_Because I miss mine, too. And I’m wondering the exact same things._

 

Struck by some kind of inspiration, the detective got up from the couch and rummaged through her beach bag until she found her phone.  Powering it up, she paced and then dialed.

 

“Hey B, how’d it go?”  Faith asked when she answered.

 

“Fine.  Good. Did you know he lives on a boat?  A yacht, actually, and… yeah. I thought it would be just a quick exchange, you know but…anyway.  I’ve got what we need and I’ll go to the lab on Monday. Not our lab,” she added quickly. “I want someone on the outside to run the specs.”

 

“Probably for the best.  You go through Orange County, you’re gonna be tied up for weeks. Just file an expense report on it after, I’ll sign off on it.”

 

“Great, thanks Faith.”  She hesitated.  

 

“Anything else?”

 

“Um, I was wondering…do you, uh, feel like going out tonight?  Nothing fancy, maybe just hit the Shuckin’ Shack for oysters or - ”

 

“Damn, B,  I’d love to but, uh, I’ve kind of got this date.”

 

Buffy’s eyebrows stabbed upward.  “Really?”

 

“Yeah.  Yeah, I know it’s been a while.  And this dude’s totally out of left field.  Get this - he works on the other side. Runs a detective agency.  Can you believe it? Me with a private dick. Totally boggles.” She snickered.

 

“Wow, yeah.  That’s…wow.”

 

“Do you want to meet us out?  We’re not, like, totally serious or anything, I’m sure he’d be up for a round of darts or - ”

 

“No, I - no.   God, no. You go have fun.  I’ll just… I’ll probably be exhausted and ready for bed by six anyway.”

 

“Buffy, you okay?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“You and him - you guys… got along okay today?”

 

“Uh-huh!” she chirped.

 

“A little too well?”

 

“Uh-huh,” she said again, with a little more nervousness behind it.

 

“No one saw you two together, right?”

 

“Of course not.  No, we used different names, his boat was way out from shore, I wasn’t followed.  It’s all good.”

 

Faith’s voice softened.  “Lemme cancel my date. We can make this a girls’ night.”

 

“Faith, no.  I’m okay, really.  Just…” She looked around the room helplessly.  “When did my life get so boring?”

 

Her captain exhaled.  “Aw, shit. You’re goin’ through what I went through with Gram.  You take care of someone so long, it becomes your life. When that person’s gone, you gotta get back to all the things that make you who you are - besides who you were taking care of.”

 

Buffy chewed on her thumbnail.  “Yeah. I’m ready but I’m not, you know?”

 

“You gotta ease back in.  You’ll get there. Why don’t you see if the Doc’s up for pool?”

 

_The Doc?_ The Slayer wondered who this new player could be.

 

“No, the Bronze is always way crowded on Saturdays.  I’m not up for that. Go on your date. I’m fine. Really, I swear.”

 

_Another Bronze with a pool table.  Apparently a frequent stop for these kids, too._

 

“If I get back in the morning, we can go to brunch, okay?”

 

“Yeah, I won’t hold my breath.”  Buffy rolled her eyes with a smile.  “Be gentle with him, okay?”

 

“Only if he begs for it,” Faith murmured slyly.  “Hey… I love ya, B.”

 

“Me, too.  See ya.”

 

Ending the call, Detective Buffy went through the motions of making the protein shake like she did every day, climbing up to the rooftop deck at sunset like she did every evening.  But her body burned with uncertainty - as though she’d misplaced something or forgotten an appointment. Whatever she had been doing with her life suddenly didn’t cut it - and she had no idea how to occupy herself instead.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue clips, reimagined and otherwise from: Season 5 Episode 14 "Crush," Season 7 Episode 2 "Beneath You," Season 6 Episode 8 "Tabula Rasa," Season 7 Episode 8 "Sleeper," Angel the Series Season 5 Episode 8 "Destiny," Season 5 Episode 17 "Forever," Season 4 Episode 10 "Hush," Season 6 Episode 4 "Flooded," Season 6 Episode 10 "Wrecked," Season 7 Episode 21 "End of Days," Season 6 Episode 17 "Normal Again."


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is no gun violence in this chapter but it does end with a "bang!"

Saturday bled into Sunday and Sunday into Monday morning.  Faith hadn’t called for brunch, not that the detective had been waiting by the phone.  Her body itched with the same feeling of disquiet while she went through the motions of a run, kickboxing at the gym, laundry, and bare-bones grocery shopping at the Valle del Sol Market.  The Slayer could feel the loneliness hanging over the woman like a pall. Knowing that she had to be at work became something to actually look forward to.

 

But instead of heading straight to the precinct on Monday, the detective pocketed the ring box of bullets into her blue blazer and headed outside of town toward what appeared to be a newer area of business development.  Surprisingly, there was a cafe on the corner of a gleaming granite strip mall and the detective… the detective actually sat down and ate breakfast. Granted, it was fruit with a grilled tofu and soy sausage scramble, but she had toast with strawberry compote on it, and she drank coffee and fresh orange juice.  For the first time since she’d arrived in this woman’s body, the Slayer felt pleasantly full. _Thanks, lady.  About time, too._

 

Back in the car, she continued down the gleaming stretch of newly paved road to a monolithic white marble and glass building that reminded the Slayer ever so much of the Frick Art Museum in Nashville, only longer, with a wall of tinted windows.  The detective’s body buzzed with a pleasant excitement. She’d been here before, pulling now into a VISITOR parking place near the entrance, and the Slayer glanced up at the building to see two huge interlocking letter Os installed in chrome on the wall above her.

 

“Welcome to Osborne Outfitters, where we don’t just make gear for living, we make gear for life.  How can I help you?” The twenty-something receptionist behind the welcome desk paused to listen on the phone.  “That would be the Scuba and Aquatics Division. Please hold.” She hung up and smiled. “Hi, Buffy. Let me buzz R&D.  They were in a meeting first thing but I think it’s finished now.”

 

The detective smiled back.  “Thanks.” She took a seat on a chrome and black leather bench by the gleaming windows and waited.

 

_Where the hell are we and what are we doing?_

 

After a short while, swinging doors to the right of the desk burst open and a familiar face in a lab coat came through to greet her with a big grin.

 

“Hey, Detective Summers!”  this world’s Larry Blaisdell boomed.  “Here to see the boss?”

 

“Hi Larry.  I’d love to if he’s free.”

 

“He is now.  Man, you would not believe the contract we just inked for the coolest piece of tech,” he gushed, eyes dancing.  “It’s a weaponized, armored wetsuit for the Coast Guard Special Ops division - you know, the ones like the Navy SEALs?  Anyway, it’s…” His excited expression faded and he gulped.

 

Buffy smiled.  “Classified?”

 

“Big time,” he groaned, shoulders slumping.  “Shit, I hate it when I do that. I’m wicked sorry.”

 

“It’s okay, I understand.  You guys do amazing work. That fact is definitely not classified.”

 

“Come on, I can at least walk you back.  How’ve you been? Catch any bad guys lately?”

 

“A few.”

 

“Lemme guess:  classified?”

 

“Just a little.”

 

“I hear that.”  He sighed and led her through the swinging double doors from where he’d just emerged.

 

With his security badge in hand, Larry buzzed her through one door labeled “Government Contracts Division,” and took her down a fluorescent-lit hallway to another restricted section, the “Research and Development Department.”  Halfway down the hall, he escorted her into a tiny office with papers, files, and books overflowing their shelves onto the floor and stacked toward the ceiling, a space that looked like the digs of the original absent-minded professor.

 

“He’ll be back in a few.  Make yourself comfortable.  Uh, if you can find a place to sit, that is.” Larry grinned.  “Clutter’s a sign of genius, right? Doc’s right up there with Einstein.”

 

_Ah, so this is the office of the elusive Doc._

 

Buffy laughed and made her way over to inspect the bulletin board installed on the far wall next to the window.  From the sweet secure feeling of comfort this office and the contents of the board inspired in her, the Slayer could tell that the detective had been a frequent visitor here.

 

As she examined the paraphernalia tacked on the board, the Slayer watched the photos of two friends growing up together, starting with a young girl from maybe kindergarten age dressed up for Halloween with an equally young red-headed boy.  _Well, of course this place makes her comfy.  It’s her. It’s them. Going all the way back to when they were little kids.  Where’s your matching bulletin board, huh? ‘Cause you obviously mean the world to this guy and yet this is the first time I’m seeing him._  A pool of uneasiness swirled around the Slayer then.  This detective’s life had once been so full, she realized.  Perhaps it was the grief of missing her mother that had caused her to put all that on pause.  Or was it something even deeper?

 

Turning back to the photos, she saw the two youngsters posed together on a dock holding up a large fish almost as long as they were tall, their ecstatic and proud smiles telling the whole story.  As tweens and teens, they stood side by side amid a group of others their age, all the kids growing taller by the summer, each year holding a banner that read, “Ocean Club Junior Sail,” with the detective also holding a gold winners’ cup in her other hand.  There were also concert ticket stubs, Mardi Gras beads, a keychain in the shape of a miniature license plate with the words, “Puerto Rico - San Juan - Isla Del Encanto” engraved on it, and a “Señor Frog’s San Juan” bumper sticker tacked there, too. When the Slayer caught a photo of the two friends all grown up and wearing sombreros while holding margarita glasses, she knew without a doubt who owned this office.

 

“You decent?” she heard a sardonic voice behind her.

 

Detective Buffy turned around and smiled at the man, his auburn hair a little longer than the most recent photo and rocking a helluva bushy beard; Hawaiian shirt under his lab coat and past the cusp of forty, but relatively unchanged and approaching her with his arms open.

 

“Doctor Osborne, I presume,” she declared.  Doc Osborne. AKA Daniel Osborne. AKA the one and only Oz.

 

“Commissioner Summers - since you’re so sweet on titles…” He kissed her on the cheek and squeezed her in a quick hug.  “That’s the one that should be yours.”

 

“You gotta be a chief first to be commish,” she told him as she hugged him back.  “And you gotta be a captain before you can be chief.”

 

“You better get busy then.  So what brings you here? The high school reunion committee handing out in-person invites to senior class dropouts?”  He paused next to his desk, took a filing box off a wooden stool and tossed it to the floor, then indicated that she should sit down.

 

“No committee work for this chick, thanks.  Probably no reunion, either.” She flopped into the stool.

 

“Don’t tell me Miss Most Likely to Everything is gonna bail on her twenty-fifth.”

 

“I’m down as a solid ‘maybe.’  You should go, though. Anders and Wills are coming into town. They’d love to see you.”

 

“Even if I never held a VDS High diploma?”

 

“I’d say your gazillionty titles from NYU and MIT and all those other initial colleges more than make up for it.”

 

He snapped his fingers.  “Which reminds me - I got a reunion of my own to consider bailing on up north this fall.  Thought about taking a boat up if you wanna hang.”

 

“You’d trust me as a first mate again?  I’m pretty rusty.”

 

“Come on, you were the best.”  

 

“Emphasis on ‘was.’ Plus, a trip like that is a bit more than one of our old weekend booze fests to P.R.”

 

“Which is why I’d definitely need you.  Think about it, okay?”

 

“Will do.”

 

He eyed her.  “So as much as I’d like to believe you came for the banter, I gotta think there’s more to it.”

 

“I’d kill for this to be a social call, believe me.”

 

He held up his hand.  “We’ll get to that. First, how goes it anyway?”

 

She hitched up one shoulder.  “It goes.”

 

“Well, when you’re up for sticks again, I’ll let you take me in one-pocket.  I’ll even spring for the first pitcher of draft.”

 

She smiled at him gratefully.  “You’re good like that, Oz.”

 

“I’m also good for phoning up just to talk.”

 

“Yeah, I’m sorry I haven’t returned your calls.”

 

Shaking his head, he sat at his messy desk, upon which stacks of file folders and reams of dot-matrix paper lay in piles.  “Buffy, you never have to apologize for that kind of stuff with me. I get it. I miss her too, you know.”

 

“Sometimes I feel like Mom adopted the whole town.”

 

“More like the other way around.”  Seeing the way she had begun to inch away from him physically, if not emotionally from the direction of their conversation, he clapped his hands together.  “So lay it on me. What do you got?”  

 

With only a hint of a flourish, Buffy plunked the ring box down on his desk.  

 

He raised his eyebrows.  “Really, Summers. I mean, it's just so sudden. I don't know what to say.”

 

“Say yes,” she replied dryly, popping open the top of the box to reveal the two bullets nestled together inside.  “And make me the happiest detective on earth.”

 

Oz whistled lowly as he pulled out a latex glove from his drawer and slipped it on before pulling one of the bullets out and examining it under the bulb of his adjustable desk lamp.

 

“Damn.  Of course it's yes,” he murmured and put on a pair of magnifying glasses that almost looked like jeweler’s loupes.  “Am I looking at what I think I’m looking at?”

 

“Only if you’ve been following the news about cop killings for the last month.”

 

“How’d you get one intact?”

 

“Got a man on the inside.”

 

He glanced up at her.  “Another?”

 

“Nope.  Same one.”

 

“So.  You and Spike again.  Gotta be careful with that, detective.” His lips quirked.  “People will say you’re in love.”

 

“Oh, no,” she said warningly.   “ _Silence of the Lambs_ quotes aside, I have to take that kind of shit from Faith because she’s my boss.  I’m not gonna put up with it from you, too. I don’t care how many degrees you have.”

 

“Well, Faith is very smart.  Especially good at figuring out when someone’s lying - even if only to herself.”  He gave her a pointed look.

 

“I didn’t come here for this,” she sang churlishly.

 

“That’s my extra scientific insight that I throw in for free with purchase.”

 

“Which begs the question:  how much do you think the lab work on that little number’s gonna cost anyway?”

 

“Since it’s gonna be me doing the work, I can swing my usual friends and family discount.”

 

“Oz, you’re a god,” Buffy said in relief.  “How long until you get the results back?”

 

“As long as nothing goes awry, it will take just a few days to get the readings.  Good thing you brought me two of these. A backup to break in case of ‘awry.’”

 

“I didn’t even ask for two.  That was his idea.”

 

“Whoa.”  He leaned back in his chair.  “It’s like he’s actually trying to help or something.”

 

“The stakes are high for him.  If he can bury that old gang of his, he’s WITSEC bound.”

 

“No more crime then.”

 

“Allegedly.  When can you get these to your lab?”

 

“Coffee willing, I can start bright and way too early tomorrow morning.  Then I bet you want a prototype of what might stop these from breaking through to skin.”

 

“Since nothing we have comes close?  That would be awesome.”

 

“That’s what’s gonna take the time.  Putting a protective vest together, even to test.  But I’ll make it happen. Once I know what makes this little guy tick, it’ll just be a matter of finding the right materials to block it.”

 

“Like something in a government-funded weaponized and armored wetsuit?”

 

Oz winced.  “Poor Larry.  Put a gag-order on him because of government security and he acts like you told him to cover up the moon landing.  I’ll be able to reuse some of that tech. The structure is basically the same, I’ll just have to modify it for land.  Make sure it fits under a shirt.”

 

Buffy gazed at him warmly.  “Have I told you lately that you’re a genius?”

 

“It has been a minute.”  He replaced the bullet in the box and took off his glasses.  “That’s why you should always listen to me.”

 

“About anything in particular?”

 

“He’s going legit, Buffy.”

 

“Who?” she asked benignly.

 

“Who,” he scoffed.  “Mr. Average Height, Blonde, Bad, and Hot.  Captain Cheekbones with the killer baby blues.”

 

Buffy squinted at him.  “You think he’s hot?”

 

“Like I heard on a movie once, I don’t think it’s a matter of opinion.  Empirically, he is attractive.”

 

“Aww, did Larry finally get you to watch _When Harry Met Sally_ with him?  Tell me, did you share the popcorn?  Did you snuggle together with the JuJuBees?”

 

He waved her teasing away.  “’86 the matchmaking. He’s my employee.  There are rules.”

 

“Which you made!  You’re the boss.”

 

“Making it even more important that I follow them.  Nice attempt to divert, too, don’t think I didn’t notice, kid.”  He looked at her. “Spike’s choosing the right side of the law. That’s gotta count for something.”

 

“It does.”  She hesitated.  “I just don’t know exactly what it counts for.”

 

“Being in your life as a different kind of ‘inside man’ maybe?”

 

She opened her mouth to speak… and said nothing.

 

“I see what you did there.”  He pointed at her. “You didn’t say ‘no.’”

 

“I realize that.”

 

“So you’re thinking about it.”

 

“Let’s just say I’m keeping my options…liquid.”

 

“Liquid’s not bad.  No, liquid’s good. I’m down with liquid.  Just don’t let him float away from you on all that liquid while you’re trying to decide.”

 

“Yeah, that is a thing.”  She frowned.

 

“If you told him that you were at least, you know, liquid about him then maybe - ”

 

“Nuh-uh.  Nope. One way or another I need to decide. Yay or nay.  No halfwaysees.”

 

“Well, if you need help hashing it out, you know where I live.”  Oz indicated the space of his office with a sweep of his hand.

 

“Lemme guess,” she inferred.  “You’re solidly Team Spike.”

 

“Actually, I’m rooting for Team Buffy all the way.  If she’s happy, I’m happy. My oldest friend needs that,” Oz added.  “It’s been too long.”

 

“Is it crazy?” she blurted, filled with a sudden panic.  

 

“What?  To want to be happy?  You’d think so the way some people live.”

 

“No, him.  Being with him.  Even considering the possibility.”

 

“He does light you up.”

 

“He’s a criminal.”

 

“Not so much after this.”

 

“Again:  allegedly.”

 

“Call me lazy but it seems like an awful lot of trouble for a guy to go through just to shine you on.  Gotta take Occam’s Razor into account here.”

 

“What kind of razor?” She squinted at him.  “You’re telling me there’s shaving involved?”

 

Oz chuckled.  “Occam’s Razor is a philosophical principle that says all things being equal, the simplest explanation is usually the correct one.”

 

“It applies here because..?”

 

“Think about it:  Spike going through all the work of shutting down his gang, changing his name, uprooting his whole life just so he can make crime somewhere else with the Feds breathing down his neck the whole time?  It doesn’t compute. Plus, with you by his side, it’s not like he could get away with anything anyway.”

 

“That’s what he wants.  Me by his side.”

 

He raised his eyebrows.  “You asking me or telling me?”

 

“It’s just… I don’t know what he sees in me.”

 

Oz’s expression broke with sympathy. “Buffy - ”

 

“No, you’re taking it wrong.  I know I’ve got… qualities. My self-confidence is locked and fully loaded, okay?  I’m saying that he wants to go legit because of the good he sees in me and that’s not…”

 

“…good enough?” Oz filled in.  He winced. “Ouch.”

 

“Look, would you rather have a person do something because they wanted to do it all on their own or because they’re trying to get in good with someone they’re trying to impress?”

 

“Depends on the thing.  I hate going to the mall but I’ll do it for certain friend-types when they’re having wardrobe-related emergencies.”

 

Buffy grinned.  “Yeah, you’re pretty amazing about that, actually.”

 

“Not once have I heard you clapback on me for doing something I hate for you.  Because it becomes less about the thing and more about the person. Besides, I don’t think Spike hates the straight life as much as I hate the mall.”

 

“I don’t think anybody hates anything as much as you hate the mall.”

 

“I don’t think he hates white-hatting it at all, really.  I just don’t think he knows it very well.”

 

The Slayer thought about that.  At one time, her own Spike was loath to help out the goody-dogooder side, going all the way back to their truce against Angelus - which he only did to save Dru, and, okay, the world with its “Happy Meals on legs.” Then he’d graduated to lending a hand when it meant money or the opportunity to have “a spot of violence before bedtime.”  Lately, though, the lines had blurred. It almost seemed as though he _liked_ fighting next to her, just as Angel had back in the day.  But as she had reminded Spike, “ _Angel was good_!”  “ _And I can be, too_ ,” Spike had told her, with a resolute set of his chin.  “ _I’ve changed, Buffy._ ”  Except she couldn’t believe it then.  Even after he protected Dawn and nearly died with Glory, she barely believed it now.

 

“What a way to get cozy with the Light Side - next to someone who’s got the Force with her every single day,” Oz went on.

 

“That’s a lot of freakin’ responsibility for just a date,” the detective told him morosely.

 

“With great power comes - ” 

 

“Oh, hush.” 

 

A small smile played on his lips.  “If it were me thinking about cashing in all my evil chips, I’d do it for you in a heartbeat.  You’re good, sure. But not too good. You try. You struggle. You’re real.”

 

“I don’t feel very real.”

 

“You’re having a moment.  Your mom just died.”

 

“I feel pretty much numb.  Except when - ” Guiltily, she glanced at Oz and tried to smile.  “Stuff like this helps.”

 

“Sure it does. So does the other stuff.  The Spike stuff.”

 

“That obvious, huh.”  She frowned.

 

“Only to those of us paying attention.”

 

“He's everything I hate,” she blurted.  “He's everything that I'm supposed to be against. But the only time that I ever feel anything is…”

 

“With him,” Oz answered for her.

 

She opened her hands helplessly.  “Seems to be.”

 

“You’re confusing what he did with who he is.  I don’t think he’s a bad man, Buffy, even though he’s done bad things.”

 

_Shades of Mr. Pratt paying yet another visit,_ the Slayer thought, but all the detective could say was, “Maybe.”

 

“Is what you’re feeling for him just temporary?  A grief-for-Mom by-product?”

 

“I’d love to think so except… shit, Oz.  If I’m truly truthful, I’ve felt for him since the day I met him.  It’s just harder to keep it in check now. All my cracks are showing.”

 

The Slayer cringed.  _All my cracks are showing._ Never had she felt truer words spoken about her own life.  There was a kind of poetry to it, painful as it was.

 

“And it’s not just about if he’ll go bad in the future, I take it.  It’s all that he’s done and if you can live with that,” Oz intuited.

 

“Yup.”

 

“Ever think that he can barely live with it?  Especially since he’s been batting for the good guys?”

 

“All the time.”

 

“Then you know it’s not something anyone should go through alone.”

 

She exhaled slowly.  “It’s a lot.”

 

“It’s love.  Pretty much don’t think it should be anything less.”

 

Buffy jumped off the stool and started pacing around the stacks of books on the floor.  “If he goes into witness protection, it’s not like I can actually follow him there. Not as myself.  I’d have to create a whole new identity, too, and I’d have to kiss my life here a permanent hasta luego.”

 

Oz raised his eyebrows.  “You’ve actually thought this through.”

 

“Damn right I have!”

 

“But you were planning on checking out of the sunshine state anyway, right?  According to the empty cardboard boxes you took out of my supply closet.”

 

“I don’t know what I was planning on doing.  It just felt right to start packing. But there’s moving away from Florida and then there’s abandoning it - leaving the Buffy Summers name and my whole life behind.”

 

“You’ll always have you.  It could just be you with love.”

 

“Oz, I’d be giving up everything for something that has a zero money-back guarantee policy.”

 

“You don’t know if he’s worth it.”

 

“I don’t know if anybody is worth it.”

 

“You are, Buffy,” Oz said softly.  “If you could be happy, you’re worth it.”

 

“Maybe I’m not built for happiness.”

 

“This from the girl who schooled me on everything from the finer points of a sailor’s knot to the best way to celebrate New Year’s in Old San Juan?  No way. Joy comes standard on your model, I promise. I’ve seen it.”

 

She looked down and cleared her throat.  “Where’s this reunion up north did you say?”

 

“I didn’t. Right now, they’re duking it out between meeting up in the Hamptons, Martha’s Vineyard, Portsmouth, or Bar Harbor.  Figure I’ll let the dust settle before I decide.”

 

“Fine coastal towns all with plenty of docking choices,” Buffy noted.  “It’d be a nice cruise up - even if it is during hurricane season.”

 

“Upper Atlantic’s usually pretty quiet.  You saying you’re in?”

 

“I’m saying I’m definitely, possibly interested.”

 

“Well, I can’t ask for more than that.”

 

She glanced at the clock on his wall.  “I gotta go. You’ll call me when?”

 

“As soon as.”

 

She gave him a quick nautical salute before sauntering out the door.  “Always a pleasure, Doctor.”

 

“Commissioner, don’t be a stranger.”

 

***

 

The detective sped back to the precinct and couldn’t get out of her car fast enough.  _Whoa, where’s the fire?_ The drone of voices from the conference room echoed down the hall but Buffy headed straight for her own office, unlocking the door with a shaking hand and zipping over to her desk.  Without even sitting down, she pulled open Spike’s file, giving a cursory glance to the list of phone numbers on the post-it and began to dial.

 

“BEEP BEEP BEEP!  We’re sorry, the number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service.  Please hang up and check the number again or dial your operator. BEEP BEEP BEEP! We’re sorry - ”  Buffy hung up.

 

“Okay, so he trashed the first phone.  That makes sense.” She picked up a pen from the cup on her desk and scratched out the first number, then went to the next.

 

“BEEP BEEP BEEP!  We’re sorry, the number - ”

 

So it went.  Each of the six numbers supposedly belonging to Spike had been yanked.  Buffy drummed her fingers on her desk, her body brimming with fury. “Now is not the time to go dark, Spike,” she muttered.  The Slayer realized that the conversation with Oz had made the detective desperate to hear Spike’s voice, maybe even assure herself that he and his devotion to her were real.  Now, however, he’d made that impossible. _Horrible timing, Spike_ , the Slayer thought.  _Truly the worst. You are so like my Spike it’s not even funny._

 

Practically vibrating with rage, the detective stalked back out of the precinct and into the blazing light of midmorning.  She bypassed her Outback for the Valle del Sol Police cruiser parked next to her, jammed another key on her ring into the ignition, and peeled out of the parking lot with a screech.

 

Teeth clenched and hands sweating against the steering wheel, she pulled into the parking lot of the marina and high tailed it to the information desk inside the clubhouse.  

 

She flashed her badge to the surprised redhead who sat at a computer behind the desk.  “Detective Summers. Valle del Sol Police Department. I’m looking for the numbered slip of one of your long-term rentals.  Boat name is the _Destiny_.”

 

“Oh, sure!” the girl warbled.  “Is there some sort of trouble?”

 

“No trouble,” Buffy replied.  “Just a routine check.”

 

The girl clicked on the computer quickly.  “That boat rents slip 30A.”

 

“Thanks,” Buffy said and began to turn back toward the door.

 

“But Detective!” the girl blurted.  “It went out. The only reason I know is because I saw it leave yesterday.”

 

Buffy swallowed hard.  “Out to the members’ deepwater area?”

 

“No.  The owner fueled up.  He took off.”

 

The detective’s heart thundered.

 

“Probably just a cruise along the coast.  He does that sometimes.”

 

Buffy glared.  “You seem to know a lot about the owner’s comings and goings.”

 

“Have you met him?”  She grinned nervously.  “He’s pretty cute. And he tips like crazy.”

 

“Tips for what?”

 

“All sorts of stuff.  Telling him if people are looking for him.  Making deliveries to him - you know, grocery shopping, that kind of thing.”

 

The detective leaned menacingly over the desk.  “Do not inform the owner I was here. I don’t care how much he pays you.  Do you understand? Unless you want to be charged with interference of an ongoing police investigation.”  She glanced at the girl’s nametag. “Janice.”

 

“Y-yes ma’am,” Janice stammered.  “I can call you when - ”

 

“Not necessary,” Buffy shot back as she strode to the door.  “But thanks.”

 

The detective knew exactly where slip 30A was and marched down the dock to it as though to assure herself that it was indeed empty.  The pit in her stomach yawned a little wider when she saw the yacht missing and the horizon clear of any ships.

 

“Son of a bitch,” she muttered.  Spike was gone and it was many minutes before she could make herself leave, too.

 

***

 

“Gone, Faith,” the detective barked into the phone as she gunned the police cruiser down the narrow stretch of beachfront highway, past the marina and under a gleaming bridge with the sign “Intracoastal Expressway” a blur as she drove past.  “Since yesterday. Right after - the day fucking after - we met up.”

 

“B, chill.  Did you tell him not to leave town?”

 

“No, but this isn’t his first rodeo.  He should know damn well - ”

 

“You have no idea what he knows, where he is, or what he’s thinking,” Faith cut in.  

 

“Absolutely none!” Buffy agreed bitterly.  “Since every single phone of his is dead.”

 

“Which means there’s no link to us.”  Faith paused. “I mean that in a good way.”

 

“What are you saying?”

 

“Darla told him she would send a message to us.  Sounds like he got out of Dodge just before that happened.”

 

Buffy’s eyes darted across the sunlit highway, barely catching her breath.  “You’re saying I should take this as a sign - that he pulled up stakes so we would know to look out.”

 

“I can see it, especially if he didn’t have time to warn you any other way.  He’s not gonna risk his chance for witness protection. He’s an impulsive shit but he’s not stupid.  You didn’t tell him it was approved yet, did you?”

 

“Of course not.”  Buffy chewed her bottom lip in worry.

 

“See?  Which reminds me, I got his paperwork right here in front of me.”

 

Buffy’s throat tightened.  “What’s the deal?”

 

“He’s taken into federal custody the minute - I mean, down to the last second, that his role in the op’s done.  He better have a bag packed because he’ll have about enough time to grab it and take a piss then he’s off to the races.”

 

“Where?”

 

Faith chuckled.  “You know they won’t ink the location to paper.  Probably some place like Albuquerque or Omaha.”

 

“But those are way inland.” Buffy frowned.

 

“Why do you give a shit?  You’re not livin’ there. Look, let’s give blondie the benefit of the doubt and take it like he’s warning us.  C’mon,” she cajoled. “Have a little faith.”

 

Buffy rolled her eyes.  “Much easier for you than it is for me.”

 

“I hear you.  Where are you now?”

 

“I’m headed out to our marine patrol for a look-see.  Might stop in next door to talk to our buddies at the Coast Guard, too.”

 

“You gonna take a boat out?”

 

“If I’ve got permission from my captain.”

 

“Hell, yeah.  You’re authorized, it’s just… you haven’t been out there in years.”

 

Buffy ignored the wonder in her friend’s voice.  “Is the office still manned part-time?”

 

“Yeah, Miller’s assigned until noon, then comes back in for the night shift.  In the meantime, I’m gonna put Young and Newton on to guard the doors here. They’re new so be sure you have ID when you come back.  And Buffy? Shit, be careful.”

 

—

 

The detective pulled into the graveled parking lot of the Valle del Sol Police Marine Unit, nothing more than a small concrete building with red clay roof tiles and surrounded by an intimidating expanse of iron fencing.  This reality’s Graham Miller, a copycat from Riley’s surly Initiative team, buzzed her in and greeted her with a smile and a handshake.

 

“Summers, what the hell?  You lost?” 

 

She shook back.  “Shit, Graham. I should’ve bought you a coffee but this was last minute.  Can I take one of the boats out? There’s been some activity over at the marina and I just wanna get eyes on the perimeter.”

 

“Sure.  You want the Whaler or the Contender?”

 

“Contender.  I won’t be long.  She gassed up?”

 

“Full tank as of eight a.m.  Sign her out and the keys are yours.”  He eyed her. “Anything I need to worry about?”

 

Buffy hesitated.  The Slayer could tell that she ached to tell this Graham to watch his damn back for retaliation from a gang of former drug dealers and current armor-piercing bullet manufacturers.  She also knew how she couldn’t.  

 

“Just a bad feeling is all.”  She scribbled her signature on a clipboard.

 

“No one does those like you.  Okay, she’s yours.” He pressed the keys into her hand.

 

_Another first.  Driving a boat. Cars are wiggy enough but this?  Oh yes, please,_ the Slayer breathed in relief when the detective slipped the protective life preserver vest on before starting the motor.  She eased the boat away from the dock and the Slayer could feel how this Buffy’s heart lightened just from being on the water.  The waves were choppy with a vigorous wind but the detective maneuvered the boat easily and the Slayer realized, _you were made for this._

 

Steering the boat in the direction of the marina, she opened the throttle full out and felt a rush of delight as the wind caught her hair and the breeze hit her face.  Her body eased into the rhythm of the boat bouncing against the waves and she broke out into a real smile of true pleasure. Only a few miles from shore and she’d already transformed into a different person.

 

_Boom!_

 

The blast from the shore was loud, like a car backfiring and for a confused moment, the detective glanced behind her as though she thought the sound came from her own boat, but no.  Then she squinted to the shore, her eyes slowly widening in horror at seeing the smoke billowing from the dock. The other police boat - the Boston Whaler that she hadn’t taken - was in flames and Graham was running toward it from the back of the office.

 

Gasping, the detective switched gears and made an about-face with the boat, causing a large wave to ripple around her.  The mist flew all around her and the saltwater stung her eyes as she bounded the boat back toward the crime scene unfolding on the shore she’d just left.

 

Just like that, Florida had become a lot less boring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue from Season 4 Episode 9 "Something Blue" and Season 6 Episode 13 "Dead Things."


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, picking up immediately post-boom with a few more reveals along the way.

By the time Faith arrived with four young rookies who looked beyond spooked at the scene, Graham and Buffy had already put up the yellow police tape around the area.  The Coast Guard patrol had rushed over to help put out the flames and the fire department sent both a truck and their investigative unit to inspect the damage. Whatever explosive the perpetrator had used was strong enough to destroy most of the boat and singe the dock, but there was enough debris to find the remnants of a remote detonator.

 

Meanwhile the detective’s thoughts were so defined and so desperate that they sounded like screaming to the Slayer:  _How much did he know?  How involved is he in this?  It can’t have been him, it just can’t.  Please, please, please…_

 

“It was on a timer,” Graham told her as they sat on the picnic table behind the office and watched the investigation unfold.  “Set to go off when I usually go out to the dock for a smoke. They must’ve been watching me for days.” His eyes were wide and scared when he glanced at her.  “You showing up when you did threw me off schedule and probably saved my damn life.”

 

“Jesus, Graham.”  Buffy shook her head.  “That was too close of a fucking call.”

 

Speaking of calls, her cell phone picked that moment to ring in her pocket.  “Lemme take this. It might be the chief.” She stood up and walked toward the office behind her to answer.

 

“Yeah, Summers.”

 

“Is it over?”  Spike’s voice on the other line sounded faint, hoarse, and frightened.

 

Anger rose up in Buffy’s chest like a wave.  “Where the fuck are you?”

 

“Well out of the line of fire.  I’m sorry I couldn’t call before now.   I’m sorry that -”

 

“Yeah, you’re sorry all right,” she cut in bitterly.  “Real fucking sorry.”

 

Through the haze of her anger, some young, faceless, sweet mirage of a girl filtered in from the detective's mind, her strong emotions indicating that this was someone the detective had loved and failed. The Slayer realized right then that the fury that consumed the detective had as much to do with her past as her present misfortune. What that meant beyond this imprint, remained a bitter mystery.  

 

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he told her helplessly.  “There wasn’t time.”

 

Her jaw tightened.  “Ask me how much I don’t care about your excuses.”

 

“I had to leave town like that.  You know I did. No one got hurt, right?  She was gonna go after the car park behind the precinct and I told her to get stuffed.  Figured a boat would be safer for your lot - and look, I know you’re brassed but…”

 

“Brassed?” she shrieked.  “Try almost blown to smithereens!”

 

Spike gave a strangled gasp.  “Wh-what? You weren’t supposed to be anywhere near - ”

 

“Well, I was.  I was there. If I had taken the other boat, you’d be sending daisies to another funeral.”

 

“God, no,” he whispered.  

 

“If it hadn’t been me, it would’ve been Graham.  Fuck, you hate me _that much_?”

 

The Slayer blanched.  Hadn’t she said the same thing (minus the colorful language) to her own Spike not so long ago?  She’d blamed him for how Dawn had found out about being the Key - of course, _he_ hadn’t known so it wasn’t like he’d led Dawn to the knowledge on purpose.  That stinky situation, like this one, had few good outcomes and both Spikes (it appeared) had chosen the least horrible route.  Surely the detective had to see that.  

 

“Buffy,” he whimpered.  “Fucking hell, I’m so sorry - I had no idea - ”

 

“No, you never do,” she railed.  “This is your world, we just get blown up in it.  I should’ve remembered: this is who you are.”

 

“It’s not.  You have to believe me. I would never hurt any of your lot.  Never let any of these monsters lay one warty digit on you especially.  I fucked up, okay?” His voice broke. “That what you wanna hear?”

 

“I don’t need to hear anything from you,” she replied, teeth clenched.

 

He huffed out a resigned sigh.  “Well, hear this at least: Darla’s hired the Tarakas.  Don’t think they’ll strike again any time soon but they’re the ones who did the boat in.  They’re making the dusters as well.”

 

Her heart thudded.  “Where?” 

 

“I still don’t know, I…  Look, I gotta end this call.  I’ll be back soon, I promise.” He gathered all his oxygen and breathed out:  “I love you.”

 

“ _Are you crazy_?” she screeched, not caring who heard her.  “You have the most deranged way of showing any kind of -  Hello? Argh!” She threw the phone down into a patch of grass next to the office in disgust.  “God fucking dammit!” 

 

Faith crossed the sand from the group of rookies and firefighters to reach her side.  “What now?”

 

Buffy sighed, the fight draining out of her.  “Nothing. It’s…” She picked up her phone. “Nothing.”

 

“So…” Faith nodded to the dock.  “Was that our message?” 

 

“Apparently so.  Plus, Darla hired the Taraka gang.”

 

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Faith groaned, rubbing her forehead tiredly.   “Assassin squad extraordinaire. B, I think I gotta call in the cavalry.  We’ve officially overshot our load here.”

 

Buffy clutched her friend’s sleeve.  “Faith, you know that the minute you call in backup from any of the townships, the Feds, or Orange County, then this op becomes theirs.  They’ll get their sticky little fingers all over it and the next thing we know, Spike’s in jail, Darla and Nest have split, and Kakistos crawls back underground.   This is our shot. I can work this. I swear.”

 

Faith watched her evenly.  “Will you take point? Do the paperwork?  File Graham’s statement?”

 

“Definitely.  Right now if you want.” 

 

Faith dropped her voice.  “Lemme walk you to your car.  Too many ears.”  

 

They walked around to the front of the building and Buffy got back into her cruiser, rolling the windows down and setting the AC on full blast.  Faith leaned into the open driver’s side window.  

 

“Was that who I think it was on the phone?”

 

Buffy nodded.

 

“And?”

 

“He wanted to make sure no one was hurt,” she whispered.  “No one was supposed to get hurt. Darla wanted to hit the precinct parking lot and apparently he talked her out of it.  So he says.”

 

“What do you say?”

 

The detective opened her mouth and then wavered.  Her eyes darted across the sea and she pulled her sunglasses from the perch on her head to cover her eyes.  “I… believe him. He has no beef with the department. I already know he would never hurt me.”

 

Faith flashed a sultry smile.  “Unless you asked for it.”

 

“Ugh, please don’t start.” Buffy grimaced.

 

“I know how you roll off-duty, B, even if you haven’t thrown down lately.  You realize you’re pretty much a freakin’ unicorn in the sack, right? There’s no one quite like you.  You’re the crowned queen of control but what you really want is to meet your match so you can let yourself go.  You’re all but gagging for a hand as strong as yours.”

 

_Here we’ve reached the Explicit for Adults Only portion of our leap,_ the Slayer thought nervously, her own neglected sexual education looming large around the gaps of all she’d desired but had never learned or tried.  Real-life inexperience aside, she still wasn’t a complete innocent: free Skinemax weekends on late night cable had burned a few memorable images in her brain, not to mention several scenes from Joyce’s hidden romance novels.  These plots were all variations on the same theme, though: how the sassy maiden gets her comeuppance (in so many ways) and tames the handsome snarky hero. While she could certainly see the benefits of that scenario, it had always felt lacking to her.  Incomplete.

 

“Well...” Faith continued, smirking,  “…there’s almost no one like you.”

 

Right.  Who else but the self-proclaimed battle-ready “love’s bitch” in the Slayer’s world, who had the manacles and chains hung on his wall with all the normalcy of a landscape painting, would find as much satisfaction in playing the servant as the master?  _Whoa, I really just went there, didn’t I?_ Of all the tastes in Spike’s sexual smorgasbord, she could bet “vanilla” wasn’t exactly at the top of the menu, but she could see him giving all 32 flavors a helluva go if it meant pleasing the woman he loved.  Just another aspect of what was becoming a pretty intricate frickin’ portrait of her vamp, if all these Spikes were any indication. The guy strong enough to both give and receive. The Slayer could easily see the detective being that way, too, and - _wait a minute, am_ I _like that?  Is this why all the sex I’ve had has - well, let’s just say it since I might be in heaven soon anyway - sucked major monkey balls?_ Did the detective see the same qualities in her Spike?  _‘Cause I think they’re sure in mine…_

 

“This is why I gave up martinis and happy hour discussions. And double dating, for that matter,” Buffy groaned.  “You’re way too informed about my sex life.”

 

“What sex life?  Your right hand? Or your active fantasy island about Florida’s hottest gangster?”  

 

Buffy exhaled heavily.  “Can I go now, Captain?”

 

“Yeah, get outta here.” Faith grinned and straightened.  “I’ll finish up.” Then she patted the hood of Buffy’s patrol car and stalked back to the dock.

 

***

 

Detective Buffy had to subject to being frisked, flashing her badge and showing her driver’s license before the rookie guarding the door would allow her entrance into the precinct. Across the parking lot, she could see Finn sweating bullets and standing sentry over the cars, mirrored sunglasses making his expression inscrutable.  An explosion like the one on the boat that close to the precinct would’ve been much worse, probably taking out the entire lot and possibly part of the downtown. Spike had done his best with what he had to work with. But the detective kept wondering about the timer set for when Graham took his break, when both boats were chock full of gasoline in case they needed to be taken out in an emergency… 

Buffy shivered.  How long had Graham been watched?  Why? By whom?

 

Some heated discussion had erupted in the conference room, one the detective was keen to avoid, so she took the back hallways and snuck into her office, closing the door quietly.  She sat at her desk and pulled up several pages of blank incident reports on her computer. She remained right there for the next hour filling them out, and not once did the name “Pratt” appear on her screen.

 

—

 

“Are you all right?”  Oz’s call came in by mid-afternoon.  “I’ve been in meetings all day and just saw the news.”

 

“Fine.”  Buffy sighed.  “It could’ve been worse, believe me.”

 

“Is this about what we’re working on?”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“Is this supposed to be a hint for you to take a step back?”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“One you’re going to be tactically ignoring, I take it.  You being you.”

 

“You betcha,” she replied, her tone of dark wit one the Slayer recognized too well.

 

“He didn’t do it.  Did he?”

 

“No, he bailed on purpose to get our attention so we kinda had an inkling.  He actually helped avoid a worse situation, if you can believe it.”

 

“I can if you can.  Shit, Buffy. This just got real.”

 

“I hate to tell you, but it’s been real for a while now.”

 

“I’ll have a prototype in a week.  Two tops.”

 

“Oz…” Buffy’s mouth dropped open.  “That’s a little nuts. You’d basically be working day and night in addition to everything else you’re spearheading.”

 

“I’m letting Larry take over most of my front-burner projects, so he thinks Hanukkah came early.  I’ve pulled all-nighters before.” She heard him smile. “It’ll be just like old times. Besides, this is way more important.”

 

All that the two friends felt and rarely said ached at the back of the detective’s throat.  “You’re the best, Oz.”

 

“Takes one to know one.  Okay, I’ll call. In the meantime, send good vibes and No-Doz.”

 

She grinned.  “You got it.”

 

As she hung up, a soft tap came on her door and Faith let herself in.

 

“Just printing out the report now,” Buffy said and pressed Control + P on the keyboard to put action to words.  She cocked her head at Faith’s somber expression. “What’s the what?”

 

“Miller needs to take a few days off, get debriefed, and have a couple of sessions with psych.”  

 

“He’s okay?”

 

“He tweaked.”  Faith shrugged.  “He’s never seen what we have.  Say what you will about ROTC explosive disposal training, you don’t flinch when shit goes ‘boom.’”

 

“Totally worth it,” Buffy agreed.  “So, who’s gonna be out there if he’s gone?”

 

Faith looked at her with pleading eyes.  

 

“Me?  Seriously?”

 

“Just until Pratt comes back.”

 

“Yeah, all right.  Whatever you need. I’ll even do the full detail.  I know…” She raised her hand before Faith could speak.  “…you can’t pay me for the entire shift. I’ll take whatever.”

 

“Buffy, I’ll pay your salary.  God knows you’re doin’ ten jobs as it is.”

 

“You know I wouldn’t have it any other way.”  The detective smiled. “Keeps me off the streets.”

 

“Hey, speaking of which, I’m sorry I blew you off this past weekend.  The, uh, date went even better than I expected.” Faith’s cheeks reddened.  

 

“I thought as much.  Good guy?”

 

“Fucking awesome guy.  He acts all proper and straight-laced on the outside, but still waters run deep, man. If it weren’t for his sweet little heart of darkness, I might think he’s too much of a marshmallow for me.” Faith’s eyes were bright and excited.

 

The Slayer knew well the feeling brewing in the detective then:  seething jealousy - and she knew why. Because Faith’s new friend sounded, well, ideally matched to her.  Exactly the sort of lover a weary warrior might long for.

 

“He’s not too dark, I hope?” 

 

Faith winked.  “Just dark enough.”

 

“Well, wow.  That’s…great.  I haven’t heard you this jazzed about a guy…” She stared at her friend.  “Ever.”

 

“I know, it’s some shit.”  Faith paced by the door. “Truth is, I’m a little freaked out.  He likes me, B. My light and dark and all my in-between. I can be me and… he doesn’t judge.  He’s seen a lot. Done even more. I swear he tells me his old MI6 stories just because he knows they’re gonna make me jump his bones.”

 

Buffy’s eyebrows stabbed upward.  “He’s former MI6? So, he’s English?”

 

Faith’s cheeks got redder.  “Yeah. He doesn’t know Spike, though.  I already checked. He’s fully locked into his P.I. business these days and he is good at what he does.”  She chewed on her bottom lip, clearly not thinking about his work ethic. “Really, really good. Mmm.” She snapped back to reality and opened Buffy’s office door.  “Sign off on the report and put it on my desk when it’s ready. Thanks, B.”

 

The Slayer couldn’t help thinking how the detective’s friend Oz and his assistant Larry appeared to be doing some sort of dance around a liaison, now here was Faith falling hard for a former secret agent turned private investigator with shared proclivities.  With Detective Buffy’s friends in committed relationships, it would no doubt leave a box waiting to be checked: did she want a relationship, too? Or would the vegan big cheese be content to stand alone?

 

***

 

Ten days.  Ten identical days marched past with the schedule so unwavering the Slayer needed to smack herself a few times to make sure that she hadn’t slipped into a recreation of _Groundhog Day._

 

5:30 am run, marine patrol, vegan lunch, marine patrol, exercise class times three, protein shake, shower, back to marine patrol until 23:00, then home to pass out in the hammock, and rise to do the whole thing all over again.  _Lather, rinse, repeat._  The explosion had rocked the whole town and the detective made a good show of downplaying the severity and providing sound bites to the curious reporters while keeping their more probing inquiries at bay.  Meanwhile, her heart sang every time she took the Contender out on the open water for daily rounds; it didn’t matter whether it was part of the job or not. She belonged on the sea and she had missed it. Plus, the Slayer realized, she never would’ve indulged herself if it hadn’t been part of her scheduled shift.  Using duty to get what she wanted - again - just like Gangster Spike had noticed. When not on the water, she watched over the remaining boat tethered to the dock as though she were guarding the infamous Illuminata diamond.  

 

Aside from her return to sea, a few other notable changes had popped up.  For one, her daily lunch at the Green Street Cafe, the restaurant near Osborne Outfitters where she’d breakfasted that one morning, had become a huge spread compared to her regular meager meals.   Even though there were many veggie burgers and a lot of nutritional yeast masquerading as cheese, the meals were filling and the Slayer didn’t feel completely starved, so that was something.   

 

For another, Oz called every couple of days on the pretense of keeping her up to date on the prototype vest construction, but the Slayer guessed it was also to keep tabs on her now that the detective had let him back into her life.  The Slayer recognized how it wasn’t that the detective didn’t have anyone, as she was only like probably every Buffy Summers in any world by being pretty picky about who got entry into her sanctum. As Oz had said, too, this Buffy was “having a moment” in the throes of incredible grief following her mother’s death.  This seemed to be the major pause button that the detective had pressed shortly before the Slayer leapt in. _Appearances can be way deceiving, though_.  _I wouldn’t be surprised if Mom’s death here is only the big photo-finish to a boatload of other crap.  So hold on tight, Buffys, it’s still gonna be a bumpy ride._

 

Finally, although both Faith and Oz had been extremely vocal about him previously, now no one breathed a whisper of the name “Spike” in her presence - making him most conspicuous in his absence.  Sunglasses on, gazing out to sea day after day, the detective knew damn well nothing else would go kablooey on her watch. Sitting sentry in the beach chair on the dock with her gunmetal Glock strapped to her thigh, she might as well have been resigned to a widow’s walk and waiting for her errant pirate to wash back to shore.  Her body registered no doubt that he’d be back - she just had no plan for her reaction when he did.  

 

***

 

On day twelve, Oz gave her the briefest of calls.  “Done. Come on in.” When Larry walked her back to her friend’s office, he looked so apoplectic with glee he could barely speak.

 

Oz held up two clothes hangers with something that looked like thinner life preservers hanging on them.  “Day wear.” He dangled the one. “Evening apparel.” He indicated the other.

 

Buffy blinked.  “I get two?”

 

“It’s the first rule in government spending: why build one when you can have two at twice the price?”   He shrugged. “It’s a Hadden quote. Larry loves the movie _Contact_.”

 

“Lemme guess - he’s all about the science.  Or is it Matthew McConaughey?”

 

“All right, all right, all right,” Oz chuckled.  

 

“So, one for me.  Who gets the other one?”

 

“Whoever’s out there working with you.”

 

“I don’t exactly have a partner in this.”

 

Oz smiled gently.  “Sure you do, Buffy.  He just isn’t a police officer.”

 

Buffy took a minute to steady her breathing.  “Technically, he’s not even here. Technically, he shouldn’t be allowed to have any police equipment.  Even if it could save his life.”

 

“Technically, this isn’t police equipment at all.  Technically, this doesn’t even exist.”

 

“But it will stop a Cop Duster.”

 

He met her eyes.  “It will definitely do that.” 

 

“What if Darla’s crew ends up changing up the bullet?  They decide to go with a different metal for the shell or make it more explosive somehow?”

 

Oz sighed.  “Then you’re screwed.  That’s my free professional analysis.”

 

“Shit.”

 

“But Buffy, I doubt they’d switch up their formula mid-stream.  It’s hard enough to make one kind of bullet in secret. Which makes me wonder - where are they making these?  In town?”

 

“Allegedly.  We’ve done some sweeps but nada.”  She glanced at him. “You have thoughts?”

 

“Not good ones.  My grandfather built the old Osborne plant way out along the intracoastal, almost in the next county.  Not one big factory like mine, but lots of smaller ones. We weren't the only ones but…they weren’t exactly, uh, environmentally friendly.”

 

“Is this the part of the swamp that’s basically a Superfund site?”

 

Oz frowned.  “Yeah. The EPA’s got it locked in red tape while they hash out how to clean it up.  They’ve blocked off the roads but you can still motor in from the intracoastal lagoon.”

 

“The government’s guarding this place, right?”

 

He shook his head.  “Last I heard, they just boarded it all up and pleaded ‘cutbacks.’”

 

“Any chance Osborne used to dabble in munitions?” 

 

“The old hunting and fishing equipment division.  I’m not saying it’s for sure but…”

 

“No, it makes sense.  A free abandoned factory in the middle of a restricted waste site on the county line and accessible by boat?  Sounds perfect.”

 

_So that’s why Spike’s gang surveilled the police marine patrol office,_ the Slayer realized.  _They were monitoring when and where Graham took the boat out to see if the routes went near their base of operations._ She hated to think that Spike had been the one tasked to watch Graham, but as surprised as he’d been that anyone could’ve gotten hurt, she guessed not.  Or, rather, hoped - just like the detective did, too. 

 

“Buffy, don’t go alone if you check it out,” Oz begged, eyes fearful.

 

“I don’t think I can check it out at all unless I want to show my hand. An international arms dealer is supposedly coming to town.  If we nab him and hand him to the Feds, that’s bigger than just bullets. Dammit!” she hissed. “I hate the thought that they’re doing this and I can’t do a thing about it.”

 

“Yet,” Oz filled in.  “You can’t do a thing about it _yet_.  Wear the vest.  Make sure he does, too.  Remember these are just mock-ups.  We’ve got the usual prelim bugs to work out.”

 

She cocked a brow.  “Such as?”

 

“That vest is pretty delicate without some serious testing - which would normally take another three to six months.  These babies will stop one bullet with no problem. After that, the reactive fibers inside could become unstable and sort of…explode.”

 

“ _Explode_?!” she cried.

 

“Maybe not so much explode.  But shatter. Not enough to kill but cause something a little worse than a paper cut if it breaks through.”

 

“Wow, okay.  Duly noted. Now I guess I get to have the wearer sign a waiver, among all the other little boxes I get to check.”

 

“If you tell him to do it for you, you know it’s not even gonna be a thing.”

 

“Oh, Oz.” Buffy groaned, sinking into the wooden stool next to his desk.  “This is all exactly what I wanted to avoid. No one should go through this unless they’re fully trained and fully informed of what exactly they’re signing up for.”

 

“Buffy, he knows.  I’d bet he’s seen worse - and with no vest.”

 

“But this is - ”

 

“What he wants. What he’s asked for.  You get right down to it, he’s got nothing left to lose.”

 

“Himself, Oz.  He’s got himself left to lose,” she spat.  “I am pretty sick and fucking goddamned tired of letting ignorant fucks die.”

 

Oz was quiet for many minutes.  “No one blamed you for what happened in Miami.”

 

“That’s nice.  Because I sure as shit do!” she said savagely.

 

“Buffy…”

 

Once again, the detective thought of that girl she had failed, the sweet one with the giggle that could’ve been Dawn in the Slayer’s world; the one she thought about when she’d been so angry with Spike on the phone after the explosion.  Only now, the Slayer was about to find out the rest of the story. 

 

“She was my partner, Oz.  That sweet, straight-up little rook, green as they come, depended on me.  Her C.I. dazzled the freakin’ pants off of her - literally. She saw so much potential in him, had so much hope for how good he could be.  I had one job: to tell her, ‘don’t go there, don’t trust him.’ That’s it. That’s all that would’ve been required of me. Guess what? I didn’t.  Because that was me in the days when I believed that you could be in the life without having the life eat you alive and I was wrong in a big fucking way.  That dirtbag got her killed.”

 

“No, his gang got her killed.  He didn’t have a say in it.”

 

“Yes, he did!  He never had to be a part of them in the first place!”

 

“Buffy, you can’t run people’s lives like they’re ops.  You can’t redact a person’s past like it’s a file you can edit.  Yeah, he could’ve made a better choice ten years before and he didn’t.  How long did he need to pay for that mistake?”

 

“But she paid for her mercy with her fucking life while I let it happen.”

 

“Bullshit,” Oz declared.  “You can’t control everything.  You really think you warning her against him would’ve changed jack?”  He shook his head. “The heart wants what it wants. Even if what it wants has a criminal record.”

 

“Oz - ”

 

“Don’t you get how different this is?  This isn’t Miami. We’re two hours away.”

 

“I could still get someone killed - someone without the experience and foresight of a seasoned, prepared officer.”

 

“But even if that happens, that’s not your fault.”

 

The detective swung her head mockingly around his office.  “You see someone else with a badge and a gun?”

 

“No, I mean…sometimes things happen because of life.  It’s no one’s fault. Not even yours with your badge and your gun.”

 

The detective jumped to her feet.  “I have the power. I have the weapons.  I have the authority. Anyone who goes down on my watch?  That’s on me.”

 

Inside, the Slayer wanted to cry because at last, someone - somewhere - not only had gotten but actually internalized the memo on what it meant to be the Slayer.  

 

“That,” he said, walking to her and putting his hands on her shoulders, “is just. Not. True.  You make it sound like you’re some guardian of the galaxy and, you know, even if you were? It still wouldn’t be on you.”

 

_Gee_ , the Slayer smiled to herself. _Thanks, Oz._

 

“You do the best you can, whenever you can,” he continued.  “That’s all you can do. And your best isn’t always gonna be, you know?”  He glanced at one of the piles on his desk. “I can show you the studies: proven chemical imbalances in the brain along with serious chinks in the immune system and all as a result of emotional trauma - ”

 

“Not necessary, Doctor,” she drawled.

 

“No one has control over how they process grief - not even you.  You’ve got to ride it out like the worst damn tsunami it is.” He paused.  “You’ve been surfing that wave for years now. About different stuff but…”

 

“Since Dad left,” she admitted.

 

“The hits just kept on coming.”  He frowned. “You’ve never even gone to a corner for a break between rounds.”

 

“If you start throwing _Rocky_ quotes at me, I’m gonna bail,” she warned him.

 

“Nah, Larry might hear and _Rocky_ always makes him cry.  Did you ever talk to anybody after the divorce?  ‘Cause that’s a long time to walk around bleeding.”

 

“I talked to you.”

 

He shook his head.  “I’m not good enough - I mean, I’m awesome, I’ve just got the wrong degrees.  What about after some of the shit you saw in the Army? Or your dad’s death? Or your partner in Miami?  Or after Riley? Or your mother? Or - ” 

 

“I get it, Oz,” she snapped.  “I’m battered, broken, and barely standing upright.”

 

“No, Buffy, no.”  He hugged her suddenly.  “Never broken and look…” He pulled away to gaze at her.  “You stand great.”

 

Just battered, then.  _Me too, lady._

 

The detective stared at her friend and then leaned her forehead against his neck, finally indulging both her and the Slayer in a good, long cry.

 

Oz rubbed her back while she wailed.  “I really think you need to talk to someone.  A professional. And I don’t mean to get your car detailed.”

 

“Well, you’ll get your wish.  Faith says I have to throw down with psych before I get my retirement back,” she admitted, bringing her head up to swipe her palms across her wet cheeks.

 

“God, I love Faith,” Oz whispered.

 

Buffy rolled her eyes.  “Get in line. And have you discussed this with Larry?  Because I think he’s gonna cry about more than _Rocky_ if he hears that.”

 

Oz kissed her forehead.  “My damage later. You’re the topic now.”

 

“Actually, I’m the topic outta here.  I gotta get back to marine patrol. The rook covering my lunch break is watching the sea with binoculars the size of the Hubble.”  She picked up the vests from where Oz had draped them over his office chair. “Oz, I truly cannot thank you enough for these.”

 

“Totally selfish.”  He smiled at her. “I want you around for a long time.  No matter where you go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Briefest Spike-quote nod to Season 6 Episode 2 "Bargaining, Part Two."


	29. Chapter 29

Oz didn’t let her go alone, shocking the hell out of the temporary receptionist at the desk who apparently had never seen the lab-coated CEO of Osborne Outfitters escort anyone - never mind his dearest friend - out the front door of his company to her car.

 

“Detective, give us civilians who love you a break, okay?” 

 

As he leaned against the open door of her car, Buffy sat in the driver’s seat and put her sunglasses on.  “In what particular way, Doctor?”

 

“Let us choose.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Before immediately bypassing us for help because we’re not trained like you, how about you give us the lay of the land, explain the risks, then let us decide if all you’re going through is ‘too much’ for us, huh?   You don’t suffer fools gladly, kid.” He smiled crookedly. “So don’t treat us like we are.”

 

Her mouth dropped open.  “But, Oz, I don’t - ”

 

“But that’s what it feels like,” he replied.  “When you don’t reach out for stuff you need that we can give you.  You’ll do it for your job most times. Like this. I wish you’d do that with everything in your life, come to me stat and ask me to help.”

 

“I didn’t really have any choice,” she mumbled.

 

He grinned.  “Even better.”

 

“I couldn’t bear to lose you, is all,” her voice quivered.  “If something I was going through ended up with you being hurt - or worse - I could never…”

 

“Our choice,” he said firmly.  “Look, maybe we’ll say ‘no,’ but give us a chance, okay?”

 

Buffy looked up at him through her tears.  “Working on it.”  

 

“That’s all I need to hear,” Oz told her and shut the door to her car, patting her roof before he walked away.

 

***

 

Two days later, the Slayer knew the Groundhog Days had officially ended.  Buffy had set no alarm and her whole demeanor said that she had a day off - a rare thing save for parts of a weekend.  The detective shocked the hell out of the Slayer by rising naturally out of bed at the ungodly hour of noon (she still fell asleep in the hammock these nights but seemed to expect that she’d wind up in bed in the morning), took an unusually languorous shower before a protein shake, and got dressed… in an actual dress.  A sweet little navy blue sheath that complimented her half-upswept hair and narrow hips, with flat sandals and only a hint of lip gloss. The mood was somber, yet hopeful - and the hopeful part was new, the Slayer could tell. Whatever this errand was, the detective decided it didn’t have to be the death sentence it had been.  

 

The Slayer hadn’t noticed before, but the former Joyce Summers’ Outback held its own collection of cardboard boxes in the hatch, one full of books that the detective donated without fanfare to the oncology wing of the hospital.  Then it was off to a carwash, where she bought a riotous bouquet of tropical blooms from a local seller out front. Next, a visit to Rico’s for coffee, followed by a short drive to a white marble garden Columbarium on a hill a few blocks from downtown.  

 

Strolling with the flowers toward a wall of shaded stone, the detective bowed her head and then whispered, “Hey, Ma.”  She filled the built-in vase full of water from the nearby fountain and arranged the flowers on the square dedicated to this reality’s Joyce Summers.

 

“I love you, but you fucked me up,” Buffy whispered, pressing her lips against the warm granite.  “It feels wrong to bring these here. You need to nag me about how I should’ve gotten fresher ones or arranged them better or…” She stroked the etching of her mother’s name.  “Ma, why didn’t you tell me? Spike meant the freakin’ world to you and I… I never even knew how much. It’s like he lost a mother, too, and… hey, you know I don’t work and play well with others, right?  So… why? What did he give you that I couldn’t? Maybe…” Her laugh bounced off the wall in a shrill echo, “…maybe you should’ve set us up or something, huh? Couldn’t you have done that before you kicked?  Pulled off a blind date between your daughter and your best new friend?”

 

“She never would’ve.”

 

Buffy whipped around and the absolute last person she imagined that would turn up - looking in a way she would least expect - stood behind her.  Hands in pockets, black cap obscuring his hair, unshaven, sunglasses on, hands in pockets of crazily paint-splattered khakis paired with equally paint-splattered boat shoes, bleached-out black tee, and chambray shirt pocked with threadbare holes.

 

“Spike?” His name died instantly on her lips.

 

“She never would’ve set us up.  You know that. No surer way of putting you off me than to suggest for one tick that I might be a decent prospect for you.  ‘Course, when we first met, I wasn’t.”

 

“Four months today,” she whispered. 

 

“It’s why I’m here to pay my respects.  Sorry I didn’t have time to pick out my bouquet.”

 

Something about that pissed her right off.  It wasn’t about flowers, it was because he used that same spiel about not having enough _time_.  Frowning, she turned on her heel away from her mother’s memorial plaque.  “I’ll come back later,” she muttered.  

 

“Help me,” he blurted, still not moving out of the harsh sunlight.  “You need to give me asylum.”

 

_I remember this one_ , the Slayer thought.  _Wonder how it will play out here_.  _Again, that complimentary bucket of popcorn would be super awesome right now_.

 

The detective pulled a classic Buffy Summers stance:  arms folded, feet planted, bitter smirk on full blast.  “For what? Stealing Samuel L. Jackson’s favorite hat?”

 

He scowled.  “No need to get cute. It's a disguise.  Come on, what part of ‘help me’ do you not understand?” His voice quivered just like the Slayer’s Spike’s had speaking the same words outside of Giles’ place on Thanksgiving.  That memorable holiday when she hauled him out of imminent danger and into her life, forever changing them both.

 

“The part where I help you.  Go have one of your little marina chiclets hail you a cab.”

 

“Buffy, please.” He took a step forward and she took one back.  He halted, his expression desperate even behind the sunglasses.   “Can we talk?”

 

“Vocal-cord-wise, yes. With each other?”  Her lip curled. “No.”

 

Spike’s jaw tightened.  “Think you can run this show without me, do you?  Well, you can forget it. I know I can't fight them both alone and neither can you.  So we're gonna have to play this a bit differently.” 

 

“ _Play_?” She took an imperious step forward.  “Is that what all this is for you?”

 

“Fuck,” he growled, head leaning back.  “That’s not what I mean. You should know that I’m bloody well through playing.  I risked everything to call you. You know how I feel. Thought between that and our time on my boat that Saturday that we were on good terms.”

 

The detective could barely control her breathing.  “On that Saturday, there wasn’t a remote detonator in the boat I almost drove.  On that Saturday, you were here. Obviously things change. Where the fuck have you been, Spike?  Why is every phone of yours dead?” 

 

“I promise I’ll tell you everything.  But I gotta get off these streets.” He gulped.  “Fast.”

 

“Why?  What’s going on?” She asked in immediate concern and then silently cursed herself.  “Never mind. Stay over here in the shade. Do not let anyone see you. I’ll bring the car around.”

 

The moment his ass caught the leather of the seat and he slammed the door, she pointed at him:  “Talk.”

 

“I’m being followed, not to mention monitored.”  He nodded at the windshield. “Please drive.” 

 

Reluctantly, she pulled the car into gear and eased away down the steep drive and back into traffic.  “Spike, you live on a boat. You’re being spied on by, what, seagulls?”

 

“Feels like it.  It’s wherever I go - doctor’s office, market, bank…even the bookstore, the library, the gallery…”

 

“Yeah, you’re deep, we get it…” Buffy muttered.

 

“I’m just sayin’ Darla’s got eyes on me all over town.  I can feel it.”

 

She took her eyes off the road to momentarily glare at him.  “This surprises you why?”  

 

“It was never like that when I worked for her before.”

 

The detective tapped her molars in annoyance.  “I guarantee it was but you were buried so far up your girlfriend’s snatch you didn’t know the difference.”

 

_Yeesh_.  The Slayer cringed.  _To that, I say a hearty, ‘hey now._ ’

 

“Anyone ever tell you not to speak ill of the dead, Slayer?” Spike leaned over to her to hiss in her ear:  “Or you just jealous I wasn’t tonguing you until you screamed?”

 

Buffy screeched the car to a halt at the nearest curb, earning a blare of car horns from behind as the traffic swerved around her.  She stared straight ahead, heart hammering and her face florid with anger.

 

“Get out.”

 

“Slayer,” he said lowly.  “I may be dirt, but you’re the one who likes to roll in it.  You want to go a round, pet, I'll have a gay old time. But to get these gits behind bars, you may want to watch the mud you sling.”

 

The Slayer could tell how he wasn’t just angry.  He was hurt and, after the words he’d just heard, she couldn’t really blame him. 

 

The detective flexed her hands on the steering wheel and collected herself.  “Okay, I’m… sorry.” She glanced at him in time to see him lean back, appeased but wary and his chest still heaving.  “But if you think for one minute that Darla never monitored you, you’re seriously deluded,” Buffy continued. “You’re just not…distracted in the same ways, is what I was trying to say.”  Gradually, she pulled back onto the street.

 

“I got it,” he snapped.   “You’re not wrong, I’d wager.”  He sighed. “Still ain’t a comforting thought that my entire life’s under her microscope.”

 

“Your boat’s probably bugged as well, which means she may be coming for me next.”

 

“Like that wasn’t the first thing I checked before you came on board?” he countered.  “If she wanted you, she’d have you.” He shook his head. “No, she’s just sniffing.”

 

“Which means you need to play along - and count on the fact that your boat’s bugged now.”  She paused. “How long were you watching Graham at marine patrol?”

 

Spike glared at her.  “Who says I was?”

 

“Someone was.  Someone knew that when the bomb went off, it could take him out with it.”

 

“And you immediately think that would be me.”

 

“You have your own ship, you had the _time_ \- ”

 

“I also have a rap sheet and a death toll tied to my name that I can’t crawl out from under, in case you haven’t noticed.  If you think that I would add to the body count now, you are crazy.”

 

Inside, both Buffys breathed a sigh of relief.  “Then who?”

 

“Tarakas, like I said.  D must’ve had them in play a lot longer than I’ve known about it.”

 

“Which means there is a lot more ‘in play’” - she air quoted sarcastically across the steering wheel - “than you’re being told.”

 

“You think I don’t know that?” he snapped.  “You have any idea what all this is doing to me?  You even care that…” He choked on the words before he could continue and began tapping his teeth together nervously.

 

“Spike.”  The detective wanted to rest her hand on him, show him any kind of comfort, but she fought the urge.  “I do understand how scary this is, really. I guess I’ve just gotten a little jaded over the years.” She kept her eyes fixed on the road.  “I’m sorry.”

 

“S’alright.”  He sighed finally.  “Don’t blame you really.  I don’t exactly have a reputation for being a thinker. I make a lot of mistakes. A lot of wrong bloody calls.  All this ain’t no different.”

 

Buffy glanced over at him.  “What do you need?”

 

Spike rested his head back and rubbed his eyes under his sunglasses.  “Just let me lie low for a bit, would you? Get m’ bearings.”

 

She nodded.  “I’ll call Faith and see if there’s a safe house available.” But as she reached for her phone, he grabbed her wrist, looking terrified.  

 

“You can’t.”

 

Stopping at a red light, the detective lifted her right hand with his left still clamped on her as though mesmerized by the contact.  She dragged her eyes to his face. “You think I don’t know how to talk to my own captain during an op? Get a grip. Not on me.” She jerked her hand away and lifted the phone to make the call just as the green light prompted her to ease off the brake.

 

“Hey.  Got a problem.”  She paused a beat.  “The cat got out.”

 

Faith paused, too.  “Shit. I hate it when he does that.”

 

“Any ideas where he could’ve gotten off to?”

 

“Lemme make some calls.  I’ll get back to you.”  

 

Spike folded his arms.  “The cat? Cute.”

 

“It works, okay?”  Buffy murmured, putting the phone down and glancing at the cars behind her as though looking for possible tails.  “Trust me.”

 

“Always have.  So what now?”

 

“We need to get off the streets.  Shit,” both Buffys swore, realizing the inevitability of the situation.  She pointed to him warningly. “Close your eyes.”

 

He straightened and lifted up his sunglasses.  “I beg your pardon?”

 

“Keep your eyes closed or I can blindfold you with the bike shorts in my gym bag,” she threatened.

 

Spike dropped the glasses back and wriggled with delight.  “Oh, baby, now I know you’re singin’ my song.”

 

“There will be nothing sexy about it, I promise.”

 

“I beg to differ but…” He held up his hands in conciliation.  “Eyes closed.”

 

“They better be.”  She darted her eyes around as she drove through downtown.  “How’d you even find me today?”

 

He huffed out his resentfulness.  “Like I’d ever forget one of the best women in the world died four months ago today?  Like it or not, Detective, someone besides you loved your mum as much as you did. Deal with it.”

 

“I know,” she admitted, her voice barely audible.  Then she cleared her throat. “But that doesn’t explain how you knew to be there at that particular time.”

 

Spike turned to face her.  “You’re a creature of bloody habit, pet.  You’re drivin’ Joyce’s old car, first off, seen you comin’ a mile away.  You had the same routine after her treatments. Once I saw you stop at the hospital, I knew what you were up to, with the coffee and the car wash.  It’s what you did to make her feel normal. Like there was a world outside of bein’ ill.”

 

Buffy pressed her lips together.  “I didn’t realize she knew that’s what I was doing.”

 

“She knew it for the kindness it was.”  

 

The detective glanced at him.  “You said you were followed at your doctor’s office.  Is it - are you - do you need to pick up any prescriptions?”

 

He leaned back, eyes closed behind his sunglasses.  “No worries.”

 

“Spike…”

 

“Just drive, Buffy, please?” His voice cracked.  “Be fine. Just need to eat is all.”

 

She grunted out an exasperated sigh. “Will you at least tell me where you’ve been?”

 

“Around.”

 

“Oh, fun!” she squealed sarcastically.  “I bet you had a blast there, I used to go all the time.”

 

He gave her a side eye.  “Quite a saucebox on you, Slayer.  Not that I’d change a thing.”

 

“How about sharing what you were doing while you were gone?”

 

“My part.  Thought it wise to leave you out of it.”

 

“Well, that was your first mistake.  Thinking. You met with your Greek friend?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“He’s coming?”

 

“Yeah.”  

 

“When?”

 

“Mañana.” His elegant accent danced over the tilded ’n’ expertly, making the Slayer wonder how many languages the guy spoke anyway.  _Ditto for my Spike.  Seems like an awful waste of immortality not to attempt at least a few other tongues.  Then again, evil._  

 

“Care to narrow that down to the next century?”

 

He snorted.  “Before the end of the month.”

 

“Now for the million dollar question: what the hell happened to every phone you own?”

 

Spike didn’t say anything, even gazed out the window at the landscape speeding by to buy a few extra minutes.  When he spoke at last, his voice sounded plaintive. Young. Vulnerable.  

 

“I couldn’t remember which ones I used to call you.  So I panicked and…trashed ‘em all.” He took off his sunglasses and even with her eyes on the road, she could feel his blue stare boring into her.  “Don’t you get it? I would never put you in danger. Not on purpose anyhow, and I’d do anything to keep you away from it. Fuck, Buffy, you know that.  Please tell me you know at least that.”

 

The pleading in his voice slammed into her defenses like a wrecking ball.  Doggedly, she mined through the depths of her fear and distrust to chip away a crumb ( _the barest smidgen_ ) of an admission that wouldn’t erode her perilous grip of control, but that would give him some solid ground with her at last.  

 

Finally, the detective responded:  “I do.”  

 

The Slayer was ready to celebrate:  _Congratulations, I now pronounce you on the same side.  You may now kiss your gangster - as soon as I’m outta here._

 

Gangster Spike huffed out a gasp of relief, too.  “Well, thank Christ for small favors. It’s about damn time.”

 

“Do you have a new burner phone?”

 

“Several.  When we stop, I’ll write down every single one.”

 

“I’ll give you one of ours.  Just to reach me and Faith. It looks like a typical burner but with a few cop-style bells and whistles.”

 

He kept looking at her with what the corner of her eye registered as surprise.  “Thanks.”

 

“What else happened?  ‘Cause I know something did.”

 

“I needed money.  Had to sell some - things.  Legal things,” he clarified, when she eyed him.  “I got a flat in the Keys I had to unload in case witness protection comes through.  All sorted now.”

 

The detective turned the car toward the warehouse district and took her hand off the wheel to point at him.  “Remember the part about your eyes being closed?”

 

“Yes, Mistress,” he drawled obediently, and with that, Detective Summers’ body went on high, turned-on alert.

 

_Oh, hell.  You like that.  You really, really like that.  God, he’s serious, too. I mean, it’s a game, I get it but it’s, like, game_ on _.  What the hell rabbit hole did I fall down into here?_

 

Once they reached the loft’s parking lot, it became a veritable clash of the titans to get him out of the damn car, out of her damn way, up the stupid steps, and finally to her dumb door.

 

“Out.”

 

“Can I open my eyes yet?”

 

“No.”

 

“How am I supposed to walk?”

 

“Hello, you don’t need eyes, you just need feet. Take five steps forward then stop.  Okay, turn right. Now stairs.”

 

“There’s stairs?  Where?”

 

“Here.”

 

“Would you quit shovin’!”

 

“Then move!”

 

When at last she jammed her key in her lock, she could’ve sworn she’d run a marathon.  “Come on in.” She sighed and closed the door behind them.

 

He cracked an eye open and looked at her.  “Your place? I’m in your place?”

 

She barely shrugged.  “No choice.”

 

A slow grin of pure delight spread over his face and he didn’t so much stroll through her space as prowl.  Barely in the door and he’d already inhaled every drop of oxygen and breathed out the very essence of himself, changing the atmosphere there forever.  It would feel very different with him gone after this and the detective had already gotten antsy about that. As he breathed, he stretched his arms out as though taking a bow, then unceremoniously dropped them back to his sides.  He looked over his shoulder at her, frowning. “This it?”

 

“Bedroom and bathroom behind here.” She thumbed the wall.  “If you need anything - ”

 

“You just move in?”

 

“No, I’ve owned this for, God, must be eight years now…”

 

“Eight years?” he crowed.  He shook his head. “Christ.  It’s like IKEA vomited in here.”  His mouth turned down as he examined her spartan digs.  “You realize they only stage homes to sell them. Once you’ve bought the ruttin’ flat you’re not supposed to keep it that way.”

 

“I didn’t.”

 

“Fucking hell, it’s like living in a damn MOMA installation dedicated to late 20th century Scandinavian rot.”

 

Now he’d pissed her off.  “Door’s right there, big guy.  Don’t let it hit you in the ass on the way out.”

 

He walked over to her, eyes plaintive.  “Buffy, it’s not that, it’s just…”

 

“This is how real people live, Spike,” she told him viciously.  “No yacht, no minions pouring martinis. Still all jazzed about cashing in your dirty money?”

 

“It doesn’t take money to hang a damn picture or have something in a color other than lead.”  He spun around. “Where are you here? This doesn’t look anything like you.”

 

“Would you get over it? It’s just a stupid loft.  I’m gonna get changed. Stay away from the windows.”  Turning to the entrance of her bedroom, she slammed the sliding door behind her. 

 

—

 

“Fucking goddamn son of a bitch,” the detective raged through her clenched teeth as she stomped to her closet and tore off her dress.  “Just who the hell does he think he is? ‘This doesn’t look anything like you,’” she mocked scathingly. “How the fuck would he know? He doesn’t know a thing about me.”

 

_Uh, except he kinda does.  He knows how you take your water, he knows how we both like cheese, he knows how you like doing favors for people to get what you want - which, yeah, that’s mostly you, I don’t really…well, maybe a little.  Once in a while. Still. It’s not so much that he knows you. He_ gets _you.  Considering the only other people here who can do that are Faith and Oz, I’d say that’s a pretty big deal._

 

The detective tried to control her breathing - pretty much a constant state of affairs in dealing with Gangster Spike - and yanked the clothes in her closet back with a vicious hand.  The Slayer understood the wig factor: nothing looked, well, right. There were work clothes and workout clothes and a couple of sedate dresses suitable for funerals, but nothing for stuff like Bronzing it.  Nothing for entertaining a former gangster turned criminal informant with a smart mouth and a hot body who caused major swoonage just by saying her name - or her title. Or her other title. Because how this Spike said “Slayer” caused some major tripping on the real Slayer’s part.

 

Instantly, she would get transported back to the floor of a crypt in Restfield at the very end of the “will be done” spell.  Everything around Buffy fell away the moment she fell onto Spike and looked into his eyes. His arms had tightened around her as though he couldn’t bear to let her go - not only with passion but possession.  That deliciously firm grip of him saying _mine_ without uttering a word.  She rarely thought about it, but she’d felt other things that night - felt _him_ \- his erection - a persistent bulge in the front of his jeans and straining toward her whenever they touched.  God, she’d wanted him, especially when she landed on top of him in the crypt and his eyes lit up at her. _“Slayer,”_ he’d snarled when he caught her and ground her into his hardness before they kissed.  His voice, all predatory and fierce, spoke of him wanting all of her - not only her blood.  If he’d bitten her that night, it wouldn’t have been to kill her, but to thoroughly enjoy her.  To give her pleasure, too. To her faux fiancé in the name of magical love, she would’ve bared her throat and he would’ve made it amazing.  She knew that as certainly as she knew he still waited by her bedside in Sunnydale.

 

Back in real time, the detective stood in the middle of the closet, worrying a hangnail and glaring at her clothes as though they had offended her.  Then she seemed to make her mind up about something. She reached down to the last drawer in her built-in bureau and yanked it open. Inside was yet another cardboard box, this one more worn with the words, “Miami” scrawled in black marker on the top.  Sundresses. Halter tops. Hell, even a black sequin slip of a dress poured out on the floor when she upended the box. So many fabrics, so many colors. _Revealing so much skin,_ the Slayer noted, seeing all the cute micro shorts and a particularly racy tank top.  She plucked out one pair of medium-risque denim frayed shorts and paired them with a pretty Mexican embroidered peasant top, the blouse concealing the holster she had strapped to her side.

 

Spike had turned on the television to some shrill talk show, hijacked her stereo to blast salsa music via the radio, and scattered almost every ingredient in her pantry across her counters.

 

“What the hell are you doing?” she cried.

 

“I need food,” he complained, paint-splattered khaki butt in the air as he pawed through her cabinet drawers.

 

“Check the fridge.”

 

“I did.”  He straightened up and turned to face her, fingers drumming on the counter. “Hence the need.”  He tilted his head at her and checked her out. “Mmm. Pretty.”

 

She twisted her lips in annoyance.  “There’s plenty to eat if you’re hungry enough.”

 

His eyes flashed but he left the entendre alone.  “Thanks, Mum, but I need more than grasses and leaves.  From the looks of it, so do you.”

 

She arched a brow at him.  “Meaning?”

 

“You know you’re wasting bloody away.  Don’t know why you’re letting it happen.”

 

Buffy rolled her eyes.  “Now who’s acting like a mother?”  She opened a drawer and tossed him a memo pad and pen.  “Here, make a shopping list. I’ll call it into the market and they’ll deliver.”

 

He began pacing as he scribbled on the pad in hand.  “Fuck, I could murder a smoke.” He patted his breast pocket and frowned.  “Down to m’ last pack.”

 

“Not in here.  It’s gonna get dark soon and then we’ll go upstairs.”   At seeing him waggle his brows, she shook her head. “Don’t get all excited.  It’s my outdoor deck. You can smoke to high heaven up there.”

 

With the speed that he slid the memo pad back across the island to her, he must’ve been composing the list in his head while searching through her meager supplies.

 

“Drink while we wait then?”

 

The detective opened her mouth to protest and then stopped.  “Check the cabinet above the fridge.”

 

“Tequila, Jack, bourbon.  Nice.” He grabbed a bottle and held it up.  “You saving this wine for something?”

 

One of those random threads of thought from her host wafted through the Slayer’s consciousness:  _Anniversary wine.  With Riley. Two bottles.  One for each month we’d made it stick.  We’d barely lasted ten weeks._

 

“No, go ahead.”  She turned her attention to the list and read some of the items aloud:  “Filet mignon, bacon, brie, French bread, eggs, extra sharp cheddar cheese, whole milk…and the beat goes on.  You realize I’m not eating any of this.”

 

“Your loss. I’ve got a big appetite,” he said with that damnably attractive tongue curl.

 

“With way expensive taste.  You are so paying me back.” 

 

“Yeah, pet.  Put it on my tab.”  He handed her a glass of the red wine he’d poured.  “It’ll have to open but let’s toast anyhow: to Joyce.”

 

The Slayer missed her mother so much at that moment that she wanted to howl.  It didn’t help matters that the detective’s throat had gone all achy and tight and she was fighting back tears.  Spike didn’t wipe back the moisture crowding the corners of his eyes, although he also didn’t look at her when they clinked glasses.

 

“Now let it sit and breathe.  Wine of this vintage shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes, if that.  Should’ve known you’d have good taste, love. In the meantime, wherever is that rooftop deck?”

 

—

 

“This is more like it.” He beamed when they reached the open air, opening his arms again like he wanted to embrace the whole world.  The detective flushed with embarrassment for him and how he always had to be so _much_ all the time.  Then again, it never seemed to be less than sincere.

 

“This is where you really live,” he continued, measuring the deck in feet by stepping heel to toe in length and width.

 

She pulled out a folding beach chair from behind her hammock.  “Park it.” But he’d already fished out his box of cigarettes and was lighting up greedily.

 

He acted like the living embodiment of a perpetual motion machine, with his body simmering on high alert.  He paced, he finger-raked his hair and made a wreck of it, he tapped his fingers against the rail of the deck, he sipped the wine and pinged the glass with his fingernail.  All that energy coiled up in that beautiful body with no place to go.  

 

“How’d you get this place anyhow?”

 

The detective bristled.  “You saying I can’t afford it?”

 

“I’m saying it looks like the last place you belong.”

 

“My dad bought it. Impulse buy based on total sentiment.  His dad used to work in this building when it was a textile mill and my dad wanted whatever unit had the best view.  Sort of like a tribute to Grandpa Summers.” Buffy shook her head. “Six months later, Dad died of a heart attack.”

 

“So the deed passed to you.”

 

“It took forever for them to convert it.  I didn’t even know about it until it was time to finalize the estate and I still had no intention of ever setting foot in here.  Figured they’d cobble it together and I’d sell it.”

 

“Then Joyce got sick,” Spike supplied.  When she nodded, he asked, “Why didn’t you move in to her place?  Sweet little Craftsman bungalow a shell’s toss from the beach.”

 

Her throat nearly closed over.  “I stayed there so long I couldn’t wait to sell it.  This place had nothing attached to it, you know?”

 

“I do.  It’s why I never wanted to live on land again after Dru.”

 

Buffy’s phone beeped in her pocket.  “That’s the delivery. Stay up here until I give the all clear.”

 

“Yes, Detective.  Be prepared for a different sort of delivery, though, yeah?”

 

She patted her concealed piece under her shirt.  “I always am.”

 

But nothing more than a standard grocery run awaited her, the bored teenager with the earbuds blasting barely glanced at her while she signed the delivery slip, then handed her a nearly overflowing cardboard box.  Before taking it up the lobby elevator, she inspected the box quickly - as much as to check for something other than food than for the food itself.

 

She found Spike rifling through her cookware when she returned.

 

“I told you to stay up there until I gave the all-clear,” she scolded.  

 

“Yes, but I just got so bored.”  Walking around the butcher block island, he relieved her of the box and put it on the counter to dig through the contents.  

 

“I was gone for a minute!” 

 

“What can I say,” he murmured, opening her fridge and tossing the perishables inside. “I couldn’t wait.”  He jerked his head back. “Wine’s ready.” Two full glasses and the open bottle sat on the flat glass stove top.

 

“Spike, a toast is one thing.  It’s the middle of the afternoon.”

 

“It’s five o’clock somewhere.  Almost here. Close enough.”

 

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, yeah,” she muttered, walking over to pick up the two glasses and setting one down on the counter next to him.  “This is gonna be great.”

 

Spike looked at the glass she’d left for him, eyes wide.  “Thank you. Keep me company?”

 

Buffy heaved herself into one of the barstools at her island and took a long drink.  “What choice do I have?”

 

_—_

  
  


One good thing about this Spike - for all the messes he made, he cleaned them up, although he also ran constant commentary while he did it.  Man, the guy could talk. Small talk at first, about cruising around the tip of Florida to the Keys, the open air market he loved there and how much he’d miss it, the challenges of having a 98 ft yacht and finding decent mooring and dockages.  

 

“Yeah, cry me a river,” Buffy told him.  “Compared to your boat, what Oz and I used to take to San Juan would look like going over Niagara Falls in a barrel.”

 

“San Juan’s amazing.  ‘Specially on holidays.”

 

“Like New Year’s.”

 

“Love New Year’s there.” And he was off to the races again.  

 

He talked so animatedly about so much for so long that the detective temporarily forgot that her captain had agreed to find him a safe house.  Now that Buffy thought about it, Faith’s failure to call back didn’t bode well. During her third glass of wine, her phone finally rang.

 

“No dice.  I’m sorry, B.  I tried. We had to sell a bunch of real estate to raise funds.  Chief got a sweet offer and took it. He’s back, huh?”

 

“Yup, and being followed, probably bugged as well.  I’ll make due. Call you in the morning.”

 

Spike turned from the counter, where he’d rolled up his sleeves and had started constructing an elaborate dinner worthy of any dropout chef.  “Where am I off to then?”

 

“No place.  You’ll stay here.  It’s fine.”

 

He grinned with such unabashed pleasure that she had to fight smiling back.  “You can drown your sorrows, love. We do have another bottle of wine.”

 

“Actually, we’ve got two if you look in the cabinet over the stove.”  Which he did immediately.  

 

“Detective, shame on you.  Holding out on me.” He clucked his tongue. 

 

“That was Mom’s,” she said quietly.  

 

He looked back at her.  “We don’t have to…”

 

“No, it feels right to drink it today.  We’re celebrating her life, right? What better way to celebrate it?”

 

“Already with the best person,” he mumbled.  “All right. I’ll open it and it’ll be ready.  Now,” he clapped his hands together, “grill time.”

 

She followed him upstairs with her wine and, by the time he got the grill hot enough for the steak and the vegetable kabobs, Buffy realized that she and the detective were a little tipsy.  Not in a falling-off-the-side-of-the-deck way but buzzed and definitely relaxed. Perhaps that was why the detective thought nothing about languishing in the hammock and watching him cook. Perhaps that was also why her inhibitions ebbed enough for her to say out of nowhere:  “I think my mother had a crush on you.”

 

He snorted and didn’t even turn around.  “No, she didn’t.”

 

“I think you underestimate the power of you in a suit on the MILF demographic.”

 

“You’re way off base, pet.”

 

“Oh, come on, would it have been so bad?  May-December smoochies, two hot looking blondes…”

 

He whipped around angrily.  “Leave it! It wasn’t like that.”

 

Chastened, she gulped.  "Okay, I - ”

 

Spike cocked a brow, abruptly changing his tack.  “If I didn’t know better, sounds like you’re sufferin’ from a case of sibling rivalry.”

 

“You’re right.”  She sipped her wine.  “You don’t know better.”

 

He grinned in cold triumph.  “I’m not far off. You’re jealous!  Poor little lost girl.”

 

“Hardly.” 

 

He leaned against the railing, slapping a metal spatula in the palm of his hand as though readying a paddle for a spanking.  “You wanna know what Joyce and I discussed that you weren’t in on, eh? Why our twice monthly little chats weren’t enough and we started meeting every week?  Inquiring minds wish to clue in on why your mum couldn’t get enough of yours truly?”

 

Furious, she swung her legs around to plant her feet, ready to fight.  “Look - ”

 

“You, Buffy.”  Just like that, the teasing stopped, bringing the now-familiar sincerity and warmth in its stead.  “Don’t you get that I loved you before I even knew you? Because Joyce loved you first and you were all she could go on about.  How proud she was of you - and how worried. Scared that maybe she had prepared you for all the wrong things in life. How she’d taught you to be strong on your own but never about the kind of strength it took to let someone in.  She needed to share all that with someone besides you. I just so happened to fit the bill.”

 

Buffy stared into her wine glass.  “She died alone.”

 

“No, she didn’t.  She died with you by her side as you’d been since the moment she needed you.”

 

“No, I meant alone without a…partner.  She had a date with a guy right before she got sick.  He sent her flowers.” She shook her head. “Then she got the diagnosis and you can bet I never saw flowers from him again.”

 

“Because she made it that way.   Once she found out what she had, she told him she wasn’t interested - to spare him.  She chose the people she wanted with her. Those were her choices. Doesn’t mean she wanted them to be yours.  She never wanted you to be alone, for one.”

 

“Well, I-I can be.” Buffy lifted her chin stubbornly.

 

“I know it.  So did she. Doesn’t mean you should.”  Spike turned down the heat on the grill, flipping the meat, still glancing in her direction.

 

“I can’t have what she did!” Buffy burst out.

 

His brow creased.  “What do you - ”  

 

“I don’t think I can ever have kids, okay?  So if I want my own personal nursemaid for the twilight years of my life, it definitely won’t be any child of mine.” She held up her hand.  “Don’t say ‘sorry,’ because I’m not really out anything. I never had my heart set on being a mother even before I knew it was off the table.  I guess I avoided a lot of guys because of that. I never wanted to make it into a battle with them.”

 

“What about Finn?”

 

She twisted her mouth.  “Temporary insanity.”

 

“No one since?”

 

She knocked back another swallow of wine.  “Too much work. Not police work,” she clarified.  “Being with anyone else is work. It’s just exhausting.”

 

“Not all blokes get hitched to spit out a kid, I’ll have you know.”

 

“That’s the thing.  I-I didn’t like those guys.  The ones I met. They were…I don’t know.  Closed-off somehow.”

 

He chuckled.  “Those were just bad dates.”

 

“What about you and a family?  You never…?”

 

“Buffy, I was brought into the world by sweet, broken people who were both in the ground before I understood what was happening.  After that…” He shrugged. “Had the equivalent of being brought up by wolves. Could barely raise myself. Thought of me with a child never crossed my mind.”  He quirked a wry grin. “’Til Dru.”

 

The detective’s eyes goggled.  “ _She_ wanted kids?”

 

“Hell no.  Dru was one herself.  The closest I’ll ever have.  The reason she got addicted to Vamp in the first place was that she could never get her meds right.  When she found something that worked, she couldn’t tear herself away. It’s why I want witness protection. I want to be whole.  Even if it is only for the last half of my life.”

 

“Why though?  With Nest and Darla in jail, you won’t even need it.”

 

“Even in prison, they’d find a way to put me down.  For me to be truly safe from them, they’d have to be dead - and believe me, I’ve considered taking on the job m’self.  But I need your lot to end what they’re doing for good so some head doesn’t grow back in their place. And…” He paused.  “I’ve still got a target on me. From when I left Ulster in the first place.” 

 

“Ireland?  But that was such a long time ago.”

 

“You were dead-on when you first interviewed me, remember?  Sold m’ cousins down the river to spring me out of the country.  It’s why I got tangled up with the Aurelians in the first place.”

 

“I thought it was because you fell in love.”

 

“It’s how they got both of us, see?  Darla had her hooks in Dru. Nest promised me protection from the nordies who wanted a tout like me dead.  Hadn’t been an issue before a pesky little thing called the Internet came into play.”

 

“So they blackmailed you into joining their gang.”

 

“Couldn’t count on me stickin’ with a header like Dru on my own.  Had to sweeten the pot.”

 

“I’m sorry.” 

 

“For what, pet?”

 

“You didn’t really… there wasn’t much choice in what happened to you.”

 

“There is now.”

 

“When you know better”-the detective whispered as she heard the Slayer rattling around in her head-“you do better.”  _Leave it to Mr. Pratt’s words of wisdom to get through._

 

The blue flecks of his eyes glinted at her.  “Something like that.”

 

“You think you’d seriously never commit a crime again,” the detective challenged, her fight returning.  “You - a career criminal who cut your teeth on terrorism and arms dealing, made your first allowance on pickpocketing and graduated to head enforcer before you could drive.   You really think you could sail through the world as a regular Joe?”

 

A valid concern, the Slayer thought.  Kinda like asking a vampire to live in a bungalow or buy groceries or get a kid up for school in the morning…well, okay.  Maybe some vampires could live like people, if you opened the door and loved them and asked them to make themselves at home.

 

Spike’s eyebrows shot upward.  “ _Sail_ through?  No, I don’t.  Fella’s gotta try, though.  Gotta do what he can. I’d live, Buffy, best I could.  Grindin’ down on the nine-to-five like a good little cog in a good little wheel.”

 

“You wouldn’t be tempted to go back to your old life?”

 

“Of course I would!  You’re asking the impossible there.  But…I’m not like that now.” 

 

“Since when?”

 

“Got a breath of hope when I met your mum, truth be told.   Reckon it stuck once I met you.”

 

She looked at him suspiciously.  “Hardened gangster to reformed criminal thanks to the Summers women?  Try again.”

 

He sighed, poking at the contents on the grill.  “Then I reckon I wasn’t that hardened to begin with.  I tried to be a good little soldier for my kin. ‘Til one day I was stringin’ pipe bombs in my great-gran’s kitchen when it dawned on me, ‘hey, we’re actually the villains in this tale.’  It’s why I sold ‘em out. Had a new life all planned in the Big Apple. Just didn’t stick.”

 

“Because of Dru.”

 

He nodded.  “I couldn’t say ‘no’ to the woman, especially once Darla caught me by the short hairs on m’ past.  They knew how to live - the best of everything, including the best drugs. All they asked in return is that I sell my soul, not like I had much of one left.  I put on a brave face, kept m’head down. When Dru wanted out, I knew we had a shot at being free, but we waited too long. Never thought I’d bury her though, even after watching her convulse and foam at the mouth in my arms without a soddin’ thing I could do about it.”  

 

“God, Spike.  I’m really sorry.”

 

“Rips me apart to even think it but…I needed to lose her,” he admitted so softly the detective had to lean in to hear him.  “Couldn’t leave her. Wouldn’t, even when I knew she couldn’t love me. She had to leave me, my last anchor to my darkest depths.  She could conjure it up in me out of thin air, too, that black beauty. Loved her and hated her for it in the same breath. Time was, Dru and me, we could’ve been Darla and Nest.  We had it in us. She even wanted it once. But she needed the drugs more. More than her sister, more than love. Definitely more than me.” 

 

He reached for the box of cigarettes again, scrabbling to light one like his life depended on it.  When the smell hit the detective’s nose, however, she frowned.  

 

“What is that?”

 

“Dinner.”

 

“No, what you’re smoking.”

 

He had his back to her again.  “Nothing.”

 

The detective actually counted to ten and finished her wine before she spoke again.  “Spike, do you mean to tell me that you are in possession of and are in the process of consuming an illegal substance at the private residence of an Orange County detective?”

 

Spike barely glanced over his shoulder.  “You’re already the law, love. Who else is gonna catch me?”

 

“I cannot believe you!” She jumped to her feet.  “Have you completely lost your mind?”

 

Spike turned to face her, his face a death mask.  “Well, yeah. About to. I, uh, sorta…underestimated how not havin’ my meds might throw me.”

 

Hearing that, the detective paused and the memory of an unmedicated Spike from their stakeout months ago flashed so strongly that the Slayer felt as though she had been there, too:  his body sweating and shaking, his eyes wide and desperate, his pulse thready. Every nerve in him struggled and failed to keep his head above the seething flood of feelings bombarding him like a helplessly storm-tossed ship.  She’d been both anchor and compass for him that night with her touch and her voice. But her ability to comfort him had had little to do with taking care of Joyce, unlike what she’d told Faith, and everything to do with how she understood exactly what to do for him.  In a way she only experienced on the sea with reading the wind and intuiting the waves, she realized that even without knowing him very well, she still knew him by heart. And right now she knew how --- he was.

 

“Well, we can just - ” 

 

“No!” he barked, coughing on the smoke he’d inhaled.  “Pharmacy’s closed now, Buffy. I fucked up, all right?” His voice cracked.  “I-I wanted to keep talking to you. I love talking to you and I knew if I said something, all that would stop.  Besides…” He coughed again. “We can’t be seen together. So when I pick up my scripts it has to be me alone or not at all.”

 

The detective looked at him helplessly.  “When does it open?”

 

“Seven thirty a.m., bright and early.”

 

“Okay, fine.  We’ll…figure it out.  Until then…” She glared at her empty glass.  “More wine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snippets and echoes from Season 4 Episode 8 "Pangs," Season 6 Episode 8 "Tabula Rasa," Season 2 Episode 22 "Becoming, Part 2," Season 6 Episode 10 "Wrecked," Season 7 Episode 8 "Sleeper," Season 7 Episode 20 "Touched," Season 2 Episode 3 "School Hard," Season 5 Episode 10 "Into the Woods."
> 
> Nordies: Irish slang for people from Northern Ireland
> 
> Tout: Irish slang to describe informers (snitches) in Northern Ireland. Slightly antiquated in present day but likely still popular in 2001
> 
> Header: Irish slang for a mentally unstable person


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FYI: There is some light kink play and food porn here, so be advised if that's not your bag.

Spike moved like a chef as he ran her kitchen. The stove had never seen so much action, and he talked non-stop about what he was doing as though he had his own cooking show. 

 

Detective Buffy drank wine and watched and finally told him:  “You are such an idiot.”

 

Spike dropped a wooden spoon with a clatter and turned to glare at her.  “Some other conversation happening I wasn’t aware of?”

 

“You really thought I’d stop talking to you today just because you had to pick up your prescriptions?”

 

“I was on my way to get them when I saw you.  Figured if I didn’t tail you I could lose you altogether.  And…” He shrugged. “I missed you. I was desperate to see you.  Then when I kept gettin’ these little glimpses out of the corners of m’eye, I got that feeling of being watched.  You know the one. Then it became a matter of needing to find you - not just for you, but for your help.”

 

“Did you have a panic attack?”

 

“Very nearly.  Just used my other medicine.”  He patted the cigarette box in his pocket again, and frowned when he saw the look on her face.  “Don’t get your knickers twisted. It doesn’t get me stoned. Not like you’re thinkin’ on it. Just…softens all the edges.  Like Gaussian blur in Photoshop, eh?” He grinned. “Buggers off the headaches as well.”

 

“What about your camera?  Doesn’t that usually help?”

 

Spike’s smile ghosted.  “Well, that’s the thing, see.  I don’t have any of my cameras anymore.”

 

“What?  Why?”

 

“I told you.”  He jiggled the handle of the saute pan to stir the contents inside.  “I needed money. I’m not takin’ a scrap from Batface, not ever again.  Only way for me to get by on my own was to sell whatever I could. So that’s what I did.” 

 

Maybe it was the wine talking or the anniversary of her mother’s death, but Spike’s forlorn expression clutched the detective’s heart.  She wanted to hug him, the Slayer realized. Come up behind him and wrap her arms around his middle while he worked at the stove, rest her head on his back, and feel his voice thrum through her body.  He’d drop the spoon and take her hand and salsa dance with her around the kitchen island before dipping her nearly to the floor and sweeping her up in a passionate kiss. No gangsters, no police, just two people wildly in love.  

 

Suddenly, she pushed her barstool back.  “Stay here.” She grabbed her keys and headed out the door to the parking lot.

 

The Outback sat baking in the late afternoon sun, the low haze of sundown edging into the amber glow.  She popped the hatch, crawled inside, and began rummaging through boxes until she reached the last one.  With her hands sweating, she locked the car and skipped back up to the loft with her discovery in her hands.

 

“Here.”  She placed the black leather case on the butcher block island directly behind where he worked at the stove.  He turned slowly, wiping his hands on a dishcloth, caught between tilting his head at her and the case curiously.

 

“What’s this?”

 

“It’s not as good as any of yours, but it’s something.  I got it last Christmas. For Mom. I don’t think she ever got a chance to use it.”

 

Now his hands shook.  Or maybe they’d already been shaking and he simply had lost his control over them.  Either way, it took him a moment to remove the nearly-new Canon EOS D30 camera from its case.

 

“You could sell this,” he told her hoarsely.  “Make some money.”

 

“So could you.”

 

Spike looked up at her as though she’d insulted him.  “Never.”

 

“Kinda stupid, huh.  Spending all that money on a camera for a dying woman.  Hope versus inevitability.” She shrugged. “I still chose hope.”

 

“You always do.  It’s why you’re extraordinary.”

 

“Anyway, it’s yours if you want it.  Makes me wonder if it was meant to be yours the whole time.”

 

He drew the camera’s strap over his head.  “Buffy,” he said slowly, letting his new treasure dangle from around his neck.  “I don’t know what to say.”

 

“Now you don’t know what to say?” she joked, pouring herself another glass of wine from the almost empty bottle.  “That’s gotta be a first.”

 

He fiddled with the dials.  “She set this to take photos of something.” Satisfied with the settings, he pulled it back over his head and lovingly put it back in its case.  “Thank you, Buffy. I just…thank you.”

 

“Believe me, rendering you incapable of speech?  Totally worth it. Hey, the grill isn’t still on up there is it?”

 

“Just keeping the food warm.  Why?”

 

She grabbed an empty platter waiting on the island.  “My turn to help. I’ll bring your artery-clogging dinner down.”

 

“Thanks ever so.”

 

Standing there like that in her kitchen, he looked like he belonged there, so of course she had to flee, unable to endure the pressure of the tender moment another second.  

 

When she reached the deck, the detective gulped huge swallows of the humid breeze and willed her control to return.  She’d almost lost it when he accepted the camera and she saw his terrified look of wanting so badly to believe in a thing, while being desperate for it to not get ripped away.  Detective Summers got it. She knew it. Hell, she lived it. Every day. Every time she thought about him.

 

***

 

“I’ve got a theory,” she announced when she brought the meat and veggies downstairs, finally composed.  “Your clothes today? This isn’t the disguise. Well, maybe the hat because seriously? Lame. But the rest… this is the real you.  The suits and stuff… that’s the gangster.” She handed him the platter and he placed it on the counter next to him.

 

“Clothing is armor.  Sorta like you and your tailored collection of business casual, eh?”  He nodded to her current outfit. “That looks more like you.”

 

“This is the old me.  Miami me,” she admitted and sat back down to see he’d opened the third bottle of wine and poured her a glass.  “It still doesn’t quite fit.”

 

“You fill it out just fine,” he assured her, turning his head to her with a smile.

 

“No, physically it mostly fits but it’s not…I mean, it’s pretty and all but…I feel like I’m borrowing Faith’s bathing suit.  The lady who wore this doesn’t exist anymore.” She knocked back another swallow of wine and the taut ropes of tension in her stomach unwound.  The Slayer could feel how the detective was able to reach a plateau of tipsy and maintain it, rather than get drunker. Still, the more she drank, the more her tongue loosened.

 

“I get it, pet.  More than you’ll ever know.  Recreated myself so many times it was like reusing a canvas, painting over the previous portrait and pretending that there was nothin’ underneath.  As for you” - he pulled out a tray from the oven - “I’m partial to the woman sitting with me now. Whoever she is.”

 

She moistened her lips quickly, eager to change the subject.  “Those potatoes look amazing.”

 

“They are.”

 

“Do you eat like this all the time?”

 

Spike leaned his head to the side as he considered the question.  “This much? No. But I always try to be a guest to myself, ‘to be treated with infinite courtesy.’ You ever read her?  M.F.K. Fisher? She’s the reason I wanted to learn to cook. So I could make the kind of meal she’d want to write about.”

 

“She’s a food critic?”

 

“God, no.  She’s…unclassifiable.”  He smirked. “Like you. With her, food and security and love, they’re all tied up together.  So hunger isn’t just for food, it’s for love. Satisfying it, that’s how you know you’re fully alive.”

 

Buffy snorted.  “That’s going pretty deep just for dinner.”

 

“But it’s not, yeah?  Or it shouldn’t be. ‘Sharing food with another human being is an intimate act that should not be indulged in lightly.’  I used to say that over and over in m’head when I set up my mise en place, to get me to focus, and it always worked. See, when I prepare it, dinner’s not just dinner.”  He presented her with his masterpiece - a beautiful spread of food arranged on a white oval plate. “It’s making love.”

 

A rush of heat blazed on the detective’s face.  Her urge to snark became nearly overwhelming, but for the first time, the Slayer could feel how her host beat it back with a stick.

 

“Spike…that looks incredible.”

 

“Wait ’til you taste it.”

 

She looked up at him.  “I can’t eat any of that.”

 

“According to whom?”

 

“Me.  My rules for me.”

 

“Your rules are bollocks.  Pea protein? Coconut water?  Spinach? Slayer,” he tsked. “How is that treatin’ yourself with infinite courtesy?  We all gotta eat, yeah? So why not make it a celebration of bein’ alive?” He leaned over the steaming plate to inhale its scent and flashed his eyes at her like a dare, eyebrows lifting for a millisecond.  “Best you ever had, promise. Worth breakin’ every rule.”

 

“Why do I get the feeling you’re talking about more than food?” 

 

Slowly, he sauntered around the island to reach her.  “You know I am.”

 

Buffy sprung out of the barstool and to her feet.  “I’m gonna just leave you two alone, you and your dinner.  I’ll be upstairs, just call me when - ”

 

“No.”   Spike pulled one barstool around the island.  He patted the seat. “Sit.”

 

Her first instinct to fight died when she saw the look on his face and in his eyes. The lost boy had been replaced with a cocksure master, and this guy left no room for argument. 

 

Her chin tipped up haughtily and she took her time both getting to the chair and primly sitting down.  Right away, he set a white napkin next to her knife while she rested her hands on the counter.

 

“I’m not - ”

 

“Hush.”  Spike moved behind her.  “Here’s how this is going to work.  I want you to be still. I want you to eat.”  He was so close to her that his breath tickled her hair.  “And you want it, too.” He brought his hands around to where hers rested on the butcher block island and he gently clamped down.  “Just like this.” 

 

A shiver ran through her.  Holding her bound, his hands pinned her wrists and forced her palms flat.  The wood beneath the heat of her skin began to warm.

 

Her automatic reaction to battle broke under his unrelenting hold.  How patient his grip. How secure. If she said ‘stop,’ it would be over.  But his hands anchored her, and that felt…good. The pressure felt good, too, and for a moment, she panicked that he’d take it away, but no.   How she had ached for this exact kind of control. It was hers, after all, through him for herself. His intuition. Her choice. At long last, she’d met her own strength and she could finally, blessedly give in to it.

 

_Hi, Rock, I’d like to introduce you to Hard Place.  I have a real good feeling you two are gonna get along smashingly_.  The Slayer’s own snark died, though, when she remembered Spike’s place in her life:

 

_You're the only one strong enough to protect them._

 

_He's the only one besides me who has any chance of protecting Dawn._

 

The only one.  Her fit. Her match. The dark to her light - or should it be more like, his charcoal to her silver?   The one man in all the world who understood what it meant to twist fate - to take the exact opposite path with a mortal enemy from what nature had intended.  There was no one else like them.

 

“That’s it, love,” he whispered fondly.  “Let go. I’ve got you. Feel that? Feel how strong we are together.  Am I holding you too hard?”

 

She shook her head ‘no.’

 

“Too soft?”

 

Again, no.

 

“Then it’s just right.  Just for us. Feel good?”

 

A shudder.  Then a nod ‘yes.’

 

“We need this and we’re the only ones who can give it to each other.  Let me in, just for a bit. Ease into me. There you go. I’m here. I’ve got you.  I promise, Buffy.”

 

The barstool had no seatback, but Spike’s body had become that for her, standing so close that she could feel the solid bulk of his chest providing some very welcome support.  Talk about having her back. His tight muscles and hard angles that made up his physical strength aside, his warmth and comfort felt like a bed of sensuality the detective ached to fall into.

 

She wet her dry lips.  “Spike…”

 

He bore down on her wrists a little harder but it didn’t hurt, just reminded her how much he was there for her.  “Give us what we need.”

 

Without hesitation, she nodded.

 

She felt him press his lips on the back of her head.  “I’m gonna move my left hand. You’re gonna take that pretty cloth napkin and place it in your lap.  Then keep your hand there, all sweet and proper. Do you hear me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Do it now.”

 

And something absolutely let go inside the detective at that.  No more worrying, overanalyzing, striving to keep it all together.  He gave her an order. She wanted to - had to - obey. When she did, the rest of the world stopped and she could just feel.  It was really that simple.  

 

“There’s a good girl.  My good, sweet girl. I’m gonna feed you.  Give you everything. We won’t stop until that plate is clean.”

 

She barely turned her head in his direction and her tone turned sardonic:  “I’m not gonna lick it.”

 

“Well, of course not, love.  That’d be a waste of your pretty pink tongue.”

 

“Before we start, may I - have a sip of the wine?  Please?”

 

“Absolutely.  All you had to do was ask.”  Slowly, he moved his hand to pick up her glass and tipped it carefully to her lips.  “Now, no more stalling, sweetness. Your steak is getting cold.”

 

He picked up her fork with one slice of beef impaled on it and offered it to her.   After only a pause, she leaned forward and opened her mouth to receive it, letting it catch and linger on her bottom lip before it melted on her tongue.  Flavor and heat flooded her senses.

 

His right hand kept hers locked down.  Every once in a while, her fingers would flex as if to test his hold.  He never let up while he fed her bite by delicious bite.

 

“There’s so much in you, love.  You feel so much. Have so much to give.  Caverns of need in you, all uncharted because you’ve never found anyone worthy to explore your depths.  You know that, right? It’s not you, baby. It’s them. Pearls before swine, as my sweet mum would say. But there’s never been a pearl as rare and precious as you.” 

 

_Daaaamn, whoever came up with “breakfast of champions” never had this kind of dinner._   The Slayer had no idea a meal could be like this:  quiet, shared, intense. Erotic. Neither, apparently, did the detective from the way her whole body fairly shivered in delighted expectation.  Who really cared, though, because at last Buffy had real frickin’ food in her mouth - excellent food, by the way, prepared better than any steakhouse and seasoned to perfection.  It was all the Slayer could do not to moan out loud but the detective took care of that, too.

 

The remaining tension in the detective’s shoulders collapsed as her head rolled back against him. “Oh, my God.  That’s so good.”

 

Spike chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest up her spine and thrilling her to her core.  

 

“Happy to oblige, love.  Drink?”

 

“Yes, please.” 

 

“Now let’s try those vegetables, shall we?”

 

Spike lifted forkfuls of food prepared with his boundless love to her waiting mouth, followed by more of the excellent wine.  The detective had nestled into him as easily as she’d collapsed into the coziness of her hammock and, really, the Slayer couldn’t blame her.  Man, it felt amazing to know your stubborn-ass self was in solid, capable hands. Hands that wouldn’t let you fall or go hungry, hands that had obviously decided you hung the damn moon and strung the stars and still wanted you even when you stumbled.  Arms that surrounded you not like a cage but with protection and care. A man who not only shared, but loved your strength and would do anything to help you make the most of it. Who better than a warrior to understand one?

 

Under the scent of food, the detective could smell _him_ \- the detergent of his shirt mingled with a spice of his sweat that reminded her of cloves.  Tobacco. Wine. The particular bite of burned grass. No less delicious than the food he fed her.

 

His shoulders rubbed against the outside of hers and the friction set her body humming.  The detective cleared her throat. “You like doing this.”

 

“I love doing this.  With you.”

 

“Even though you can’t see me?”

 

“I can see you fine.”

 

“But from this angle - ”

 

“I can feel you.  Read your body. That’s more important now.”

 

“Why?”

 

“So I can feel how much you want this. So I can be with you in it.  So I can give you more of it. Do you like this, baby?”

 

She swallowed hard.  “Yes.”

 

“It feels good?  Me being here? Feeding you all that you need?”

 

A pause.  “Yes.”

 

“You’ll do the same with me tomorrow, you know.”

 

She turned her head toward him.  “How long have you been without your meds?”

 

“Six a.m. will be twenty four hours.  Not like it matters.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

He gave a resigned sigh.  “They don’t work anymore, Buffy.  The dosages are off and… you’ll see.  I’ll be so far gone, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.  You know that.”

 

“You should take my bed.  You’ll have the bathroom. I mostly sleep upstairs anyway.”

 

“In the hammock?”

 

“Unless it rains.”

 

“You’re primed for the salt life, you are.  What a pretty picture you’d be on the high seas.” He nuzzled the back of her hair.  “The Pirate Queen Summers.”

 

“So you’re the Dread Pirate Pratt in this story?”

 

“It’d be a good tale, you gotta admit.  Thing is, I’m rather done playing the pirate.”

 

“I think you’ll always be one at heart.”

 

“And what if I am?”  She felt his breathing catch, waiting for her answer with proverbial bated breath. 

 

She paused only a moment before answering.  “You can still step out of the darkness with both eyes open, fully informed in choosing the light.”

 

_Oh, wow.  You did it.  You chose to believe in him.  Yay for you. Now the big question:  can I with mine?_

 

His reaction made that admission so worth it, too.  Exhaling against her, he leaned his forehead between her shoulder blades.  “Thank you, Buffy,” he whispered. His breath rustled the back of her neck.  “Thank you.”

 

“Don’t thank me yet.” Her voice trembled.  “I’m still trying to wrap my head around all of this.”  

 

“You’re saying I’m not?  That I have no clue what we’re supposed to be to each other?  This between us is wrong. I know it. I’m not a complete idiot.”

 

At that, the Slayer gave a little cry inside.  She hadn’t recognized it that night in Spike’s crypt, but she sure as hell heard it here.  He sounded so sad. So agonized. So torn.

 

“Everything always used to be so clear,” he continued.  “Cop. Robber. Cop shoots robber unless robber shoots her first.  It’s always been that way. Thug like me, I’ve seen things you couldn’t imagine and done things I’d prefer you didn’t.  Now, only one thing’s clear to me, only one thing I’m sure of: you.”

 

God, he sounded, acted, and looked just like the Slayer’s Spike - all the William Pratts did -  and for the life of her she couldn’t sort out exactly what that meant.  

 

Obviously, her Spike shared more in common with these humans than she ever would’ve imagined before her first leap.  Spike wasn’t Spike only because he was some atypical vampire, he had some innate Spikeness that bled through dimensional walls.  The annoying, mega-flawed smoking hot dude with “demons” of all shapes and sizes who inched his way out of the darkness to meet the Buffy he loved.  In a way, she could even argue that Spike’s demon had a leg up on those of his human counterparts. Nashville Will’s rampant one had almost swallowed him whole, simply because his human spirit wasn’t designed to bear the burden quite like her own Spike could.  

 

But what did it mean beyond all that?  The Slayer had nothin’.

 

The detective seemed to be similarly flummoxed.  “Well, that makes one of us sure of me,” she joked hollowly.  “All the ways I’ve tried to live to make my life better just keep blowing up in my face.  Right on this plate, as a matter of fact. All that clean eating, destroyed in one meal.”

 

“Not destroyed.  You built yourself back.  Our bodies weren’t designed for misery, Buffy.  They’re made to enjoy. Yours in particular.”  

 

_Life is meant to be enjoyed, not endured._

 

His hands moved to slowly massage her wrists and he knitted his fingers snugly to her hand, the rough pads of his fingers stroking the silky webs in between hers.  “I love that you let me do this for us.”

 

She snorted.  “How I gave up, you mean?  Shimmied over to my weakness to give it a big, fat, wet kiss?”

 

“You let me drive for us.  That isn’t weakness. It’s the greatest strength there is to give yourself what you need by being vulnerable to another.  It’s the best kind of bravery.”

 

She lowered her eyes.  “I don’t feel brave.”

 

“Then allow me to tell you how you are.  Every day.”

 

Every nerve ending in Detective Summers’ body screamed with the need to grab him.  His hands would have no choice but to release her wrists and wrap around her, clutching her desperately and that would be it.  She’d launch into his arms and send him careening back into the stove, then possibly reduce her tastefully appointed kitchen to rubble. _That_ was the force of her want for him.  The kind of wall-shattering passion that would bring a whole building down.

 

The Slayer understood it well now, how a Spike and Buffy coupling would be two forces of nature colliding.  They’d ruin one another while they restored each other in the next breath, only to lick their wounds in turn before doing it all again.

 

But not tonight.

 

“You’re pretty brave yourself, you know,” the detective told him quietly.  “It takes guts to live a life. It takes more to change and try to make it a better life.”  She paused and the Slayer could feel a tingle in her consciousness as the detective read her thoughts.  “The hardest thing to do in this world is to live in it.”

 

“Then the worst thing to do is to try to go it alone.”

 

“Thank you for dinner.  If you couldn’t tell, it was incredible.”  She caught her breath. “All of it.”

 

“My pleasure.  No regrets, yeah?”

 

“With that meal?  Never.”

 

“So good, love.  You ate every crumb and enjoyed every bite.  You did so well. I’m so proud of you.”

 

The detective squirmed under the praise, loving it and wanting it and hating herself for both of those things while she tried to push it away.  But it made her blossom and it made her crave more.

 

As though intuiting her restlessness, Spike gave her wrists one last squeeze and eased his hands away, taking one step back as he did so.  The loss of his touch dropped her body temperature by several degrees, but she felt different than when she first sat down. Relaxed. Steady.  Altogether sorted.

 

“Wait,” she said suddenly.  “You didn’t eat anything.” Then she turned around to look at the stove and saw another full plate.

 

“I will.  You relax.  I’ll clean up here.”

 

“Cooks don’t do dishes.  That’s what Mom always used to say.”

 

“I need to, though,” he said, his voice deep with unease.  “Can’t sit still. Gotta keep my hands busy.”

 

“Oh, right.”  She nodded and slid off the stool, holding on to the edge of the island to steady herself before she moved to standing.  Her eyes tipped to him shyly and he quirked a quick grin, the corner of his mouth barely trembling. It had already started, whatever physical manifestation of him being without his medication would be and she realized he’d become desperate for her not to see it yet.

 

“Holler if you need anything,” she said and let herself into the bedroom while walking on air.

 

***

 

The detective took such a long and indulgent shower that she became pruny. Slowly working the shower gel over her body, she imagined Spike’s hands caressing her, Spike washing her hair, Spike leaning her head back into the spray to kiss her senseless.  That dinner had given her something - confidence maybe? No, security. That was it. To the Slayer, that was weird.  

 

The whole bondage lifestyle had always seemed so extreme and strange, the Slayer had never considered it as even an option.  Master and slave? Whips and chains? Ha, forget that. But a warmth had spread throughout the detective’s body that hadn’t existed before, at least not since the Slayer’s leap in.  She felt protected and cherished. Someone loved her enough to take over for her. He didn’t order her to sit and eat or hold her bound while he fed her because he sought to demean her.  Quite the opposite. He lifted her up. That’s why the detective craved it, the Slayer understood. She trusted him to take care of her, however he saw fit, giving her instinctive control freakiness a much-needed time out.  

 

The detective pawed through the pile of clothes from the Miami box until she found a black shortie pajamas set, more sleepover than sexy, pulled her hair in a damp ponytail and went back out to find him.  The kitchen gleamed and the dishwasher hummed. A full glass of red wine awaited her and she knew he’d gone up to the deck.

 

Sitting in her hammock, puffing away on what smelled like a real cigarette this time, wine in hand, he looked more at home in her space than ever.  Buffy didn’t even bother aiming for the empty beach chair. She sat right next to him with her wine and gazed up at the sky, streaks of remaining gold from sunset being painted by approaching dusk, with a few shy stars peeping through the encroaching black.

 

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

 

“It is a nice night,” she agreed.  She turned to see him gazing at her.

 

“That, too.”  

 

“How are you feeling?  Are you struggling to sit still?”

 

He shook his head.  “Finished the wine. Finally shut me down.  It’ll last a couple of hours.”

 

“When you say ‘shut down,’ what do you mean?”

 

“Like downshifting.  From full throttle to a neutral roar.”  He gazed across the horizon and gave a lazy smile.  “Which reminds me…” He leaned over and lit her candles on the table next to him.  “I’m gonna have to take a jaunt out when I get back to m’ boat.”

 

“To where?”

 

He pointed.  “Roundabout there.  Reckon I’ll be able to see you if you have your candles lit.”

 

“Really?” She squinted.  “I don’t think - ”

 

“I do.  I’ll make sure I do.  Like findin’ my favorite star.  Just know I’m out there, wishing on you.”

 

A wave of exhaustion washed over the detective then.  She felt pleasantly full, the wine had softened all of her edges, and she’d put her incessant need to control on the back burner.  The Slayer had never felt the detective’s body so at peace.

 

“I am so tired I can barely keep my eyes open,” she said with a yawn.  She sipped the last of the wine and set the glass down on the floor beneath her.   Without hesitation, she curled her legs up and shifted to her side, resting her head on his shoulder as though it was the most natural thing in the world.   Just like that, the detective found everything she never even knew she wanted - with the Slayer wishing she had some of the same.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House arrest morning after! Lots of love to anyone reading :* This chapter contains some more light kink play and conversation about the same, so reader be aware...

A glorious sunrise awakened Buffy the next morning and the Slayer finally got the reasoning for sleeping in a hammock outside:  no need for a clock or an alarm, just the sun gradually rising and nudging you awake. The grey chenille blanket from the couch had been draped over her and she smiled, thinking about how Spike must’ve wrapped her up in it before he left her to sleep; maybe he’d even kissed her goodnight.  Blanket in hand, she padded downstairs to return it to the sofa, then grabbed her phone on the desk to check the time: 6:50 am. 

 

The loft was eerily silent and somehow looked even cleaner; apparently, he had dusted - or maybe even mopped - overnight.  Even her boxes looked like they’d been rearranged according to year next to the wall. Her stomach twisted a little at the thought that he might’ve been snooping through her things, but the boxes were closed and placed out of the way.  The sliding door to her bedroom was closed, too, and she frowned, wondering how much he had actually slept.

 

A pitcher of fresh squeezed orange juice waited for her in the fridge and she melted as though he’d left her flowers.  She drank a glass and then reached in the cabinet above the stove for a can of Cuban espresso and a moka pot. Her thoughts brewed with the coffee and when the clock hit 7:15 am, she dialed.

 

Oz answered immediately.  “Are you okay?”

 

She gathered all her resolve.  “This is me asking my friend to make a choice to help me even though it could be dangerous.”

 

“Wow, what a wakeup call.  I’m in.”

 

“I need you to do an errand for the good Valle del Sol police department in,” she glanced at the stove clock, “forty-five minutes after the pharmacy opens.”

 

“Uh, sounds great.  Except I can’t. I would for real, but some guys from NASA are coming in and they get real squirrelly about timing.”

 

She frowned.  “Well, shit.”

 

“I bet Larry would go.”

 

Buffy felt filled with dread.  “Oz, it’s one thing for me to ask you, my best bestie.  I don’t think I could ask Larry.”

 

“That’s why I’ll ask Larry.”

 

“He’d do anything for you.”

 

“That’s kind of the point.  This errand, is it classified?”

 

She grinned.  “Wicked classified.  Top secret, actually.”

 

“Can he wear his Sonny Crockett sunglasses?”

 

Buffy snorted.  “Whatever turns him on.  I need someone to pick up Pratt’s scripts at the downtown pharmacy.  That place is so out to lunch, they’ll let anyone pick up medicine. Thing is, it can’t be a cop or me or Faith or anyone that could lead to us.  Then buy a carton of Reds and something sweet, like a bear claw.”

 

“Drugs, smokes, and pastries.  Jeez, Detective. You having a party?”

 

“Yeah, it’s a laugh riot.  Faith will come to your office for the pickup.” She paused. “Are you sure Larry will be okay with this?”

 

“Will he be in big danger?”

 

“There’s always a danger,” she said softly.

 

“Buffy, this is a guy who studies the theory of relativity like it’s his favorite comic.  Give it to me straight.”

 

“My gut says very little danger.  I’m just in precaution territory. If he wears his lab coat and flashes some kind of official looking badge, I doubt Larry will even be noticed, especially if he looks like he’s from a doctor’s office. He doesn’t have to do it, especially if he’s scared.”

 

“He’s not gonna be scared.”  Oz sighed. “Buffy, you are seriously going to make my assistant’s day.  There may even be tears.”

 

“Make sure you dry them before he drives,” she said wryly.  “Tell him he talks to no one while he’s out, copy? Just remind him: what would Crockett and Tubbs do?”

 

She next left a voicemail for Faith:  “I need you to go see the Wizard in an hour,” and hung up with a little grin.  It had been Faith’s joke, the detective’s suddenly forthcoming memory told the Slayer.  How Buffy’s oldest Valle del Sol buddy was the wonderful science wizard called Oz.

 

—

 

After Buffy spent a good forty-five minutes pacing, Faith finally arrived.  “Were you followed?”  

 

“Nope - and just to be sure, I left my cruiser at the Marine Unit after I went to Osborne and used Miller’s unmarked sedan.  Then I took the back way to your place and waited at the old bottling plant before I parked. No one’s out, B. It’s eight in the fucking morning.”

 

“Graham’s back on patrol?  How is he?”

 

“No one’s tried to blow him up this week so he’s golden.”

 

“Good.  Got everything?”

 

She grinned.  “Yeah. Larry sprung for a box of crullers for the squad and he threw in four bear claws for you.  He was so friggin’ excited about playin’ _Mission: Impossible_ , I thought the poor dude was gonna wet himself.” She handed Buffy the large shopping bag and her expression turned grave.  “Buffy, there are a shit-ton of pills in there.”

 

Buffy lowered her eyes.  “I wondered about that.”

 

“My stint with Narc tells me he’s got an anti-anxiety in there and some flimsy migraine crap that basically just numbs your ass.  Spike’s got a helluva lot more on his plate than high blood pressure. Doesn’t he?”

 

“It doesn’t make him a liability to us, though.  I swear. I’ll vouch for him, at least where his medical conditions are concerned.”

 

“Conditions?”  Faith looked surprised.  “Shiiiiit.” She rubbed her forehead.  “Okay, today I’ll try to get you a safe house and - ”

 

“No, I’ll keep him here.  Then he has to go back to his ship.  Otherwise Darla’s gonna know something’s up.  He just needs to stabilize first. However I can make that happen.”  At Faith’s look of curiosity, Buffy rolled her eyes. “I told you I’d be whoever he needed.”

 

Faith shocked the detective by pulling her into a tight hug.  “You holler if you get in the weeds.” Then she was gone. Looking down in the shopping bag, Buffy saw a long manila envelope on top.  Faith had brought his witness protection documents to sign, too.

 

Buffy found herself in a quiet space again.  Except this time, she wasn’t completely alone. 

 

—

 

Shopping bag hooked on her elbow, juggling a ceramic cup of espresso in one hand and a tumbler of water in the other, Buffy eased the sliding door to her bedroom open, wondering what she might find.  First off, her room had been plunged into shadow, with the down comforter that usually occupied her bed tacked over the three windows on the far wall. Even with blinds drawn, the space had obviously not been dark enough for his tastes.  The bed sat empty and the two pillows on it were missing.

 

“Spike?” she hissed.  From the other side of the bed, she heard a faint grunt.

 

Making her way around, her eyes adjusted to see his chambray shirt folded neatly on the upholstered chaise in the corner.  His head rested on one pillow on the floor and the other pressed over his ear as he lay curled on his side with his bare back to her, his t-shirt long abandoned.  His ribcage moved like that of a cornered animal panting, knees drawn protectively up to his chest.

 

All his pretense and preening had been stripped down to render him nearly incapacitated on the plush area rug at her feet.  The detective tiptoed closer and even in the dim light, she could see the outline of a large black tattoo - a detailed Celtic cross - rippling between his well-hewn shoulder blades.

 

“Spike?” 

 

A louder groan came this time.  She placed the bag and the cups on the wood floor and crawled toward him, placing her trembling palm delicately in the center of the cross.

 

His whole body shuddered.  “Buffy…” he muttered thickly.

 

“Yeah.  Can you sit up?”

 

After a few moments, he answered:  “Can try.”

 

More minutes passed until he drew up his energy enough to move the pillow off his head, ease his knees down, and face her.  He moved as though his head weighed a ton and he could barely raise it from the pillow. As he rolled, another black ink tattoo caught her eye, this one of a roaring dragon with three heads hugging his left shoulder.  His pretty face was lined with pain and he squinted at her as though blinded by the sun.

 

“Look at you…glowing.”

 

She reached behind her to pull the shopping bag over and set the bottles on the floor between them.  “That’s the migraine aura talking. Sit up for me?”

 

His body wrestled with the request, although he managed to finally heave himself up to sitting and collapse his head against the side of the mattress with a wince.  

 

She indicated the line-up in front of them.  “Here, pick a pill, any pill. Is there an order you have to take them in?”  One shaking hand reached out to a bottle. “Two of those. Good. Now water.”  

 

He muttered around the sips.  “Glowing. Think of glowing. Focus, dammit.  What's a word means ‘glowing?’ Gotta rhyme…”

 

“Uh, you caught me on a slow morning - could be ‘gleaming’ maybe.  Which pill next?” He pointed. “Bottle says take two of those as well.  There you go. Okay, ‘gleaming’ rhymes with ‘reaming’ and ‘steaming’ - that could get interesting, but it’s not gonna win any Pulitzers.  But if you mean ‘glowing’ like ‘burning,’ that makes me think of my favorite poem - do you want to hear it? Spike?”

 

“You went away.”

 

“Yup, to this little place called sleep, you should look into it.  Onto pill bottle number three…” He reached for them before she could say any more.  “Wow, your hands, they’re…God, you’re shaking all over, Spike.”

 

“Tie me.”

 

All the air got sucked out of the room at that.

 

Buffy blinked. “Huh?” 

 

“My hands.  Tie them. Use my shirt.” He nodded to a dark pile on the floor.  “God knows I tried to.”

 

She swallowed heavily.  “You tried to tie up your own hands?  Why?”

 

“When it gets this bad, I can’t stop scratching.  Dru used to have to bind my hands with her bathrobe tie.”

 

_I’ll just bet she did,_ the Slayer snorted to herself but understood here the marked difference between getting your hands tied up for happy fun times and being bound because you were clawing at your skin in anxiety.  Which is obviously what he had done, she could see now, the angry red gashes along the underside of his arms and his flank visible even in the grey light of the darkened room.

 

“Only dig in when I can’t stand it anymore, the feeling like something’s crawling under my skin and I gotta tear it out.”

 

“Let me get something…”

 

Her voice trailed off as she scooted around to the end of the bed and, taking a deep breath, opened the innocent-looking cedar chest at the foot of it, with all the trepidation of peeking into Pandora’s box.  After rummaging under some blankets, the Slayer realized that’s just what this was. Secreted at the bottom under the family afghans, next to several white taper candles and one long feather, were several coils of rope. _From all her time spent on boats,_ the Slayer thought wildly. _Please from all of her time spent on boats…_

 

Although, it was kind of irresistible that she could learn about something so strange and intimate like the reasons rope might be in a bedroom.  _Hey, the more you know.  I might need to tie someone up on the Hellmouth.  It could be a thing._ Then the image of the manacles hanging in Spike’s crypt flashed in her mind, so she nervously directed her attention back to the detective, who was unwinding a small length of thick rope that had an earthy smell to it.

 

From the look on his face, the Slayer could tell that Spike was, like, 99.99% sure that these ropes had nothing to do with boats, either, but he just watched.  Sometimes he chewed on his bottom lip, sometimes his lips twitched in a small, secret smile.

 

“Is that hemp?” he asked finally.

 

She nodded. 

 

“Gorgeous sheen, that is.”  When she met his eyes, they were dancing even through his pain and he gave a contented little sigh.  “Ah, sweet Slayer. I have so many questions, with so little of an attention span.”

 

“Give me your hands.  Wrists together,” she rapped out.

 

“Yes, Mistress.”  His voice became huskier and dropped an octave - the only sign of any surrender.  He seemed mesmerized with how her hands wove the rope around his trembling wrists.  “Lark’s head double column?”

 

Her eyes tipped up.  “If I can trust you to have the knot on top.”

 

“You can trust me.  Harder,” he groaned, shivering as she yanked the knots snug.  “Mmm, that’s tight,” he growled, not exactly complaining. “God, it’s lovely.  What beautiful handiwork.” He lifted his bound wrists to admire the intricate weave of his restraint.  “Can’t wait to show you my knots someday. Though you shipwreck lasses do know all the best ties. Or was this for another kind of sport?”  

 

When she chanced a look at him, his eyebrow raised ever so slightly and whatever was written on her face made him grin.  “It _was_ for another kind of sport.  An indoor sport. Maybe something with a nice stiff paddle, too… ping pong, perhaps?  Come on.” He eased himself to sitting upright and nudged her crossed knee with his. “Play with me, pet.  It’s just talk. It’s all we’ve ever done.”

 

_You think we’re dancing?  It’s all we’ve ever done._ The Slayer shivered with the memory.

 

“Will it take your mind off scratching?”

 

Spike smiled lazily.  “What scratching?” 

 

“When I say we’re done, it’s over.”

 

“Yes, Mistress.”

 

“What do you wanna know?”

 

“The same question I had the day we met:  how do you do what you do and do it so very well?”

 

In spite of herself, she giggled.  “What, breathe?”

 

“That and this. Your knot technique.”  His long, quivering fingers reached out to caress her bare knee and a thrill of excited shivers raced through her.  “You ever sample the wild side, Slayer? Shibari? Kinbaku? A little suspension play?”

 

The fluttering feeling along her nerve endings began to concentrate in a heavy, needful heat between her thighs.  A tingle of anticipation puckered her nipples hidden under her top.

 

“The ropes are in the bedroom for a reason,” she admitted softly.  “B-but…it’s been a long time.”

 

“Do you miss it?” he asked gently.

 

“Sometimes.”

 

“God, what we could do.  Wanna show you, touch you.  Burns me from the inside out.  Think of it, how we’d make something glorious together.  I’d weave my passion and bind my love over every inch of you.  Make you even more of the masterpiece you are.”

 

She swallowed hard.  “Y-you really like doing that?”

 

“I love it.  Love to give, love to receive.  Just like you. Knew it the day we met.  Bird’s of a feather, remember? You hogtied me in a handcuff knot quicker than I could tie m’ shoes and threw me in the back of your cruiser all in one breath.  I said, fucking hell, that bird’s bloody gifted.”

 

“You didn’t even flinch that night,” she said huskily and her voice warmed with a kind of pride in him.

 

His eyes glittered.  “Fantasy come true, that was.  Always meant to ask you where your real cuffs were.”

 

“I was off-duty.  I just so happened to run into your little altercation on the way.”

 

“Kismet.”  He curled his tongue behind his teeth.   “Almost like I sought you out.”

 

“Is that what you did?” she challenged.

 

“Ah, ah, ah.”  He staved her off with a languorous grin.  “That’s me not winning with any answer there.  If I say no, I sound like a liar. If I say yes, I sound like a pervert.”

 

Buffy snorted.  “Should be easy for you since you often sound like a pervert.”

 

“Just do it to get a rise out of you, you know.”  He looked wistful.  

 

“On what planet do you think being a total pain in the ass is foreplay?”

 

“Suppose it depends on the level of pain and how much you like it,” he whispered.   “How much do you like it, Buffy? How hard do you go? How much can you take?”

 

She licked her dry lips quickly.  “Spike…”

 

“I’ll go first.”  Eagerly, he leaned into her. “I can’t do agony but there’s no fun in dominating an easy mark, is there?  I love a strong hand so I need my true match. We’re not rough together but powerful. Like a bloody hurricane.  Hard. Hot. Wet. I love a good twinge like this, what you gave me. It’s perfect. It starts this sweet ache, when you’ve been waiting so long for the right touch and you just can’t quite get there.  I love drawing that out, making it last, pushing us harder. I love hearing my lady beg, feel her strain against my grip, watch her throw her head back, make her scream. Love being on my knees, the dig in my skin, all my pleasure in her hands.”  He tilted his head at her as though trying to suss out the answer to a particularly puzzling question. “Anything you can relate to?”

 

“We’re done,” she replied crisply, back to business and breaking the spell even with the flush burning on her face.  

 

Lo and behold, Spike actually obeyed.  Not in a pansy-ass submissive way either, but with a devious smirk like a panther slinking back into his cave and readying himself for the next pounce.  “As you wish.” He tipped his head in a little bow.

 

“You need to finish taking your pills,” she continued, as though they had been talking about the weather and not the finer points of bondage.  But her heart thudded madly.

 

“You need to finish feeding me my pills. How many I got left?”

 

“Last two bottles.” She picked one up and examined it.  “God, this can’t be right - four of these? Do you want them all at once or one at a time?”

 

“Pop ‘em all in, I crush ‘em on the back of my teeth anyhow.”

 

“Yuck.  Okay, here we go…”

 

He opened his mouth and bared his tongue but the moment she rested the chalky pills there for him to swallow, he wound his tongue around her sweaty fingers and sucked on them with agonizing slowness.  The warm wetness swirled around the pads of her fingers making her gasp before he gently eased his head back and grazed his teeth along her skin as he released her.

 

In the midst of her still burning and panting for him, Spike opened his eyes and fixed her with an insatiable grin.  Then his nose twitched and his whole expression changed. “Do I smell coffee?”

 

The detective stopped gazing at his mouth and snapped back to reality.  “I brought you some, but that was before I read on one of the medication guides that you’re not supposed to have caffeine with…” Her hand faltered, trying to decide on a bottle. “Is it this one?”

 

“Damned if I know.  Now ante up,” he groused. His expression immediately switched to delight when she lifted the demitasse cup.  “Ah, she brings the good stuff. See, pet? Not dead yet. You do still remember how to live.” She tipped the espresso up to his waiting lips and tried not to stare at how the cords in his neck quivered while he swallowed.  “Yours is even better than Rico’s, I’d wager.” He licked his lips. “God, you make it good. All rich and fragrant and luscious. And the coffee’s delicious as well.” He winked and then his face erupted into pain. “Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow.”

 

She yanked the cup away.  “I told you!”

 

He forced one eye open. “Bring that back.  That wasn’t enough to cause a reaction. I want my damn coffee hot, woman.  Is that so much to bloody ask?”

 

“Didja ever think maybe that’s why you’re getting the migraines in the first place?  That something you’re eating or drinking causes the medication to interact?”

 

“Didn’t know detective work extended to the medical field,” he glowered and with the accompanying pout, the detective grudgingly allowed him another sip.

 

“I’m just throwing out ideas, which is more than the losers at that joke of a doc in the box are doing for you.”

 

“It’s not like I can bloody carry insurance!  Can only go where they take cash and don’t ask questions.”

 

“You’re going to a fucking pill mill, Spike!  Do you get that?” she snapped. “What they do is like putting a Bandaid on a bullet wound - if not throwing lemon juice on it, too.”

 

“Why do you think I wanna get the hell out of here, huh?” he demanded, any pain now taking a backseat to his anger.   “Got you dangling my witness protection over my head like a fucking carrot. Can’t plan for anything, don’t know where I’m going, where I’ll work, how to dress, where to live.  Can’t sleep, can barely eat…”

 

“But you’re smoking drugs and chugging wine like a champ!” 

 

“Because I don’t know how to make the pain stop!” 

 

“Because of all the pills?”

 

His shoulders slumped and even the tattooed dragons winking on his shoulder looked defeated.  “Right,” he drawled as the fight eased out of him. “The pills. That’s the whole of it, pet. Keep tellin’ yourself that.  Can’t be a criminal, can’t be a citizen, and you won’t let me be yours. Where the fuck do I fit in?”

 

Maybe it was the way his hands were tied, the collapse of his posture, or his overall frustration, but he appeared so lost and beaten that the detective couldn’t bear to see him suffer a moment longer.

 

“It’s approved,” she blurted.  “Your witness protection. You’re in.  I have the papers in the kitchen. Faith dropped them off.  Once your hands stop doing the mambo, you sign them and it’s done.”

 

Spike raised his head slowly, his eyes shocked and bloodshot.  “Really? Where am I going?”

 

“They won’t say until you’re there.  I’m sorry, I know that doesn’t help with feeling anxious or making any plans but - ”

 

“I’ll live,” he replied shortly. “Thanks to you, I will.  Buffy, I-I can’t thank you enough, pet. This wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for you.  You never even spilled about me shooting Angel. Know you didn’t ‘cause if you had, WITSEC wouldn’t even be in the cards.”

 

“If I had, I’d be in as much trouble as you.”

 

“I told you I’d never break our confidence.”

 

The detective couldn’t meet his eyes, those two endless blue pools ready to sweep her up and carry her away.  She focused on the waiting medication instead.

 

“Last bottle.  Says to take two… man, you’re keeping big Pharma in business single-handedly.”  He tipped his head back and she gingerly rested the tablets on his tongue before snatching her hand away and offering water. “Down the hatch.”  He swallowed and his face paled. “What’s the matter?”

 

“Feel a bit queasy is all.”

 

“Here, you need to eat something.”  She rustled through the bag and presented a sticky bear claw wrapped in paper.  “Just a nibble for now, okay? You can have more later.”

 

“How did you…?”  His face smoothed in understanding.  “Ah, beautiful Joyce. Of course she told you these were my favorites.  It’s like she’s still here.” He took a few bites from her fingers and swallowed.

 

“How are you feeling now?”

 

He looked toward the pastry.  “More.”

 

“Spike…” She broke off a piece and he playfully snapped it from her fingers with bared teeth.  “Has anyone ever tested your sugar? You could be diabetic.”

 

“Right, why not?” he mumbled with his mouth full.  “‘Nother damn pill. What’s one more, eh? Give me an even half dozen.”

 

“What are all these even for?”

 

He swallowed again and she brought the coffee for him to sip.  He nodded to each medication in order: “ADHD. Anxiety. High blood pressure.  High cholesterol. Migraine.” A sentry line of bottles arranged on the floor in front of him and standing guard over his precarious grasp on control.

 

“Jesus,” she sputtered.  “This is too much medicine for, well, anyone. You’re so young.”

 

He gave a smirk that looked pained.  “I’m _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ , love.” He cleared his throat and recited, “‘You will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.’  ‘Experience is merely the name men gave to their mistakes.’ Reckon it’s m’ life story.”

 

“I never read it.”

 

“Poet like you?”  His eyes enveloped her with warmth.   “More’s the pity.”

 

“You’re taking too much.  All these drugs, besides whatever you’re taking to self-medicate, is going way overboard for a man your age.  Maybe even for an elephant. Do any of these quacks know if your meds are, like, contraindicating? Because if they did it could - ”

 

“….kill me.” He flashed a crooked smile.  “I know it. It’s why I want a clinical trial.”

 

“What clinical trial?”

 

“There are dozens at teaching hospitals in big cities.  The more meds you’re on the better. Makes for a better lab rat.  But I can’t do it, can’t commit to it unless - ”

 

“…unless you’re a totally different person with insurance and secured in witness protection,” she realized.  “That’s why you want it.”

 

“One of the reasons.  I can’t be this anymore and I don’t want to be who I was.  When you said the silk suits were the costume, wager you weren’t far off.  I’ve played a part for years. So long, that’s who I became. I forgot… so much.  Myself, if I ever knew.” His eyes got a faraway look.

 

“You won’t even have your name when you go,” she murmured.

 

“I’ll always be Spike for you, baby,” he purred.   His expression smoothed back to seriousness. “Maybe I’ll find my true self.  The original portrait of the artist before he went to fucking hell.”

 

“‘Welcome, O life!’” she quoted in a whisper, a scrap of a long-forgotten book report assignment from the detective’s past.

 

Spike nodded.  “That’s how I want to feel all the time.  It’s how I feel whenever I look at you, Buffy.  You’re seared on my heart, you’re branded on my soul.  I’m burning in you, Summers, burnin’…”

 

She jerked away from him as though he could singe her.  “Sshh. That’s enough.”

 

His eyes had closed.  “My head’s so hot…just your hand, please…”

 

Her palm that had been wrapped around the cold water glass reached up to cup his brow.

 

“Oh, God, yeah,” he gasped, his voice tight and strained.  “You’re so good, so gentle, so fierce.”

 

“Rest your head here against the side of the bed.  I won’t take my hand away. You need to let the medicine work its magic.”

 

He smiled as he followed her instructions.  “You’re working your magic. As you do. Fuck, m’mind’s goin’ a mile a minute.  Whenever it gets quiet, there’s this dull roar in my ears…all comes rushin’ back.  Your mum, Dru. You. All my questions about who I’ll be, where I’ll lay m’head…” His breathing hitched.  “Tell me your poem, pet. Your favorite.”

 

“On one condition:  you must stay quiet.  I won’t remind you again.”

 

“Yes, Mistress.”

 

Stroking his hair, she began:

 

“Tyger Tyger, burning bright, 

In the forests of the night; 

What immortal hand or eye, 

Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 

 

In what distant deeps or skies. 

Burnt the fire of thine eyes? 

On what wings dare he aspire? 

What the hand, dare seize the fire?”

 

Before she could reach the third stanza, she felt his body ease and saw a small smile playing on his lips as he fell fast asleep. His hands had finally stopped shaking so she gently untied the rope from his wrists and rested her head on the mattress next to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back in the late '90s and early '00s, it was not uncommon for pharmacies to be pretty lax about who they allowed to pick up prescriptions, especially in a town with a "pill mill," which is a doctor, clinic, or care center that is prescribing or dispensing powerful narcotics inappropriately or for non-medical reasons. 
> 
> Quotes from Season 5 Episode 7 "Fool for Love," and Episode 14 "Crush."
> 
> "Welcome, O life!" from Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce.
> 
> Although my own brain cooked up The Tyger by William Blake as being the ideal Spike poem circa 1999, I'm way late to the party for putting it into fanfic. So I bow down to every writer who beat me to the punch. Still had to use it here, though.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when our couple wakes up to face the day together? Read on and see. Let me also assure you that any angst you experience in any of these worlds is short-lived. Every Spike and Buffy will have a happy ending, guaranteed. That said, they are also very much who they are and have a knack for making life difficult for themselves. On that note, I tip my hat to wonderful OffYourBird who fought the demons of illness, work, and a very busy life to beta these chapters!

Thirty minutes later, he was still knocked out.  He probably hadn’t slept all night or, hell, it was a side-effect of the gazillion pills roiling in his gullet.  The Slayer eyed the bottles still lined up like little tin soldiers on the wood floor. So hard to hate him when he was so obviously defenseless - _I get it, sister, that’s right when I kissed mine, when he was all covered in sexy wounds_.  For the legion of scars littered on the detective’s own body, he could match her mark for damn mark.  Only difference, his were screaming underneath his skin. _Consider, too, the vampire and the Slayer._

 

The Slayer almost choked out a laugh when she imagined Giles’ voice nudging her toward research with those words.  The vampire, the face of eternal youth. Superhuman strength and healing in immortal life balanced with a superhuman fragility in death.  Living forever but able to be blown away - literally with his dust scattered by a breath - in a matter of seconds.  

 

_So where is my balance?  Superhuman strength, skill, speed, and healing paired with the likelihood I’ll be dead before I sip my first legal glass of celebratory champagne.  Until then, I’ll take every blow like a prizefighter while inside, my body’s still aging, bruising, and dying._ Never mind that for all of the strength of the Slayer, imperviousness to heartbreak wasn’t included.

 

_Well, duh. Slayers weren’t meant to have lovers or friends or families.  We’re living, breathing bazookas brought out to vanquish as necessary and then tucked back into our cages - training until we drop, while studying every frickin’ last freckle of every Slayer before us in the hopes of warding off our inevitable death by one more day.  Damn. No wonder I feel wrong. I_ am _wrong. I’m the wrong kind of Slayer - just by continuing to live._

 

And wow, she allowed herself to feel a sudden peace about that.  

 

_As long as I’m alive, I’m a constant reminder of how the Slayer line failed - it ends with Faith now, not me - but I’m still here.  I bucked generations of plans. I fucked y’all up but good_ \- and that did make her giggle because it was such a combination of every Buffy she inhabited so far.  _Every breath of mine is a big old middle finger to the stupid Watcher’s Council - and that makes me wanna live forever,_ she thought with a snort.  _Who would believe me being the rebel?_ Oh, the Slayer understood too well now how easy it was for the Council to throw Faith under the bus for going rogue.  Faith led not with her shoulder, but with her passion and pain and anger - easy to chalk it up to female psychosis and lock her away.  Yet in choosing to demonize Faith, they missed the real outlaw of their perfect Slayer scheme: Buffy Summers, the Slayer who refused to die.

 

_I’m the one Slayer not like the others - which can be seen as either a major disappointment or an amazing Buffy-shaped gift. So I’m gonna go with gift._ If only the detective could feel so special being the kind of warrior who had persevered in living and loving beyond the odds.  Even if it meant loving someone on the wrong side.

 

_We’re both on the wrong side, Spike and me.  I am the wrongest Slayer in the history of wrongdom and he’s the chipped vampire who substituted killing with loving._ They shared more in common than not.  Maybe that was why he had always been so easy to talk to.  The detective and her gangster had already proven that once they got started, they could barely shut up.  _Well..._ Going by all of these Spikes, sooner or later they all stopped talking long enough to kiss their Buffys - pretty damn well from the previews she’d had, too.

 

Meanwhile, the detective couldn’t take her eyes off of hers.

 

_Aww, you love him.  Of course you love him.  It’s okay. All these Buffys do.  You didn’t bring him home because he’s your job.  He’s here because there’s no place you’d rather have him than in your space - especially when he’s hurting so badly and needs you.  Not just anybody - you. To feed him not pills but life - just as he fed you dinner last night._

 

_You damn lucky bitch._

 

_***_

 

_Best nap ever,_ the Slayer’s consciousness registered when she floated back to waking.  She wanted to hold on to her soft fuzzy dreams a little longer, having slept so deeply and feeling the pull of slumber still beckoning her.  Wherever she was, it felt amazing. Safe. Warm. Loved. Strong arms held onto her. Her strong arms held on, too. Curiosity got the better of her and, with the detective still having a sound siesta, the Slayer cracked an eye open.

 

At some point, Spike had pulled her into his lap and leaned back into a sitting position against the side of the bed.  Her cheek on his shoulder, her mouth against his neck, his lips on her forehead, and his head resting gently against hers.  She hadn’t felt so comforted since… 

 

_I was warm ... and I was loved ... and I was finished. Complete._

 

The detective had wrapped her arms around Spike’s ribcage and the Slayer allowed herself to pull her head back a little to see what it looked like, Buffy and Spike wrapped up with each other not for sex, but for comfort.  It looked good. It felt even better.

 

_Check him out:_ sleeping Gangster Spike, an older version of Nashville Will, both of whom were the younger incarnations of Mr. Pratt - all of whom were the replicas of her very own vamp.  Same sloping nose, same prominent cheekbones, same stubborn set of his squared-off chin, same noble jaw, same lusciously full lips. _Sex on a stick_ , as Faith said.  If only that’s where the similarities ended.  The Slayer imagined that if she jumped into an Alien Buffy World, there would be a Spaceman Spike there who loved little green her, while smoking Venusian cigarettes and using the Martian translation of the word “wanker.”  Here in Florida, the Spike happened to be a gangster and the Buffy happened to be a detective - the unluck of their draw. Oops, sorry Charlie. That’s just the way the vegan cookie crumbled. _But is that a reason to say, “no?” Because their titles make it harder to love each other?  Who the hell ever said love was easy?_

 

_God, my life is weird,_ she thought for maybe the billionth time since she’d become the Slayer.  She rarely dwelled on it because that would be a one-way ticket to Crazytown.  _But seriously, no one else gets to be another version of themselves several times over.  No one gets_ this, _human versions of the nemesis who loves her so that…what?  I can try Spike on for size without consequence? Is that what these guys are?  Dress rehearsals for my Spike? But why? I don’t get the point._

 

_“Oh, Slayer.  Without love, what’s the point of anything?”_ came the echo of Buffy Anne’s voice.  All the Spikes loved their Buffys, including her own.  _So what can I learn from that, huh?  How is that supposed to help me fight the next war?_

 

“Spike, I have no idea what to do,” she sighed aloud.

 

“Ssh…” His lips barely moved next to her.  “Sleep.”

 

“I’m tired of sleeping.”

 

“That makes no sense, Slayer.”

 

“I’m really confused.”

 

“Wish I could make it easy.  To choose. To love me.”

 

“You’re not so bad.”

 

“No?”

 

“You’re pretty hot.”

 

“Feeling’s mutual.”

 

“It shouldn’t matter, right?  That we were enemies?”

 

“‘Course it matters.  Overridin’ centuries of instinct.”

 

“Centuries.”

 

“For love.”

 

 “Are you… are you my Spike?”

 

“Always.  Whether you want me or not.”

 

“Spike…” 

 

“Ssh, we’re sleeping.  Just sleep. Just dream.”

 

“Just a dream.”

 

Eyes closed, together their lips parted and they breathed in each other’s breath.  In, out. Just a fraction closer, her head tipping up met his dipping down and…there, bottom lip brushed along bottom lip and she let out a long, pent-up moan.  Hands came to life slowly, grasping, encouraging - a tug from him; a pull from her, both eager to get closer. Her top lip reached out to find his and, oh, that felt good, too.  Their lips barely clung together and their warm gasps were in perfect sync. Tentatively, two warm and curious tongues carefully explored with a tiny lick. A gentle stroke. Bolder sweeps, tongues softly warring in their insistence to connect, to possess.  Then his hungry growl and her gasp as he tasted her mouth like some delicious, juicy fruit. His hands moved up to cup her face, her arms wrapped around his neck and she felt suspended, as though her whole body was floating and her only solid connection was him.  Side by side, they slowly eased to the floor and to the pillows waiting for them there, drawing out the sweetest, longest kisses she’d ever had.

 

Both of them - or was it more like all of them at this point?  Because in the fog of sleepiness and burning arousal, the Slayer felt herself and the detective and the gangster and the vampire, all merged together and driving to the same goal.  All of them embraced every time they pressed their lips together and entwined their tongues. Not from a spell, not from guilt or reward or sympathy. Just kiss and yes and good. All of them on the same star-crossed page.

 

_I want to rewrite this story.  I want love to win. Not instinct.  Not right or wrong, bad or good, but love.  Just love. Without it, there’s no color, no life - and definitely no meat or cheese.  Without it, there’s no point of anything. So you kiss yours, silly, and I’ll kiss mine.  I’ve kissed him before but never like this. You’re about to turn a whole new page and I wanna see how it ends:   Buffy Chooses to Give Spike a Chance - Chapter One._

 

It was a dream come true, but not one of them could admit it was real.

 

***

 

At some point, they’d dozed off again amid kisses so languid and soothing that the detective’s mouth still tingled.  God, he was an amazing kisser. He didn’t so much kiss as consume. Like everything in his life, he did it with gusto and he’d dedicated himself to kissing her as though his life depended on it. Yet, he didn’t press for more and neither did she.  They needed the healing powers of the kiss and so he had poured all of his love into just that.

 

But when the detective opened her eyes, he was gone.

 

Buffy got up stiffly with her lower back protesting, and entered the kitchen.  There Spike was, dressed and fiddling with his new camera, yet he barely looked up at her.

 

“This here’s exceptional, pet.  Beautiful piece. The flash attachment goes off like a flash bomb.” He paused.  “You did well for your mum, Buffy. Not just about the camera. She knew how much you gave up for her and she never took it for granted.  Even if she didn’t know how to tell you.”

 

Something was wrong.  The Spike-look the Slayer had come to expect and bask in (the “you are the sun, I am the planets” one) had up and left the building, leaving this kind-but-detached, barely-there glance.  Neither Buffy liked it.

 

“Are you feeling better?”

 

“Good and numb,” he agreed cheerfully, patting the shopping bag on the island.  “Ready for the next round.”

 

She saw something else on the island.  “You signed the papers. For witness protection.”

 

He nodded.  “That’s when it hit me.  I’m going away. Becoming someone else. It’s real.”

 

Buffy rolled her eyes.  “Of course, it’s real. It’s…”  Her jaw tightened in sick understanding.  “Oh. Is that it? It just got real for ya, huh?”  She bit her lip so hard she could taste blood. “God, I knew it.  I knew it!” She pointed at him in accusation. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to commit once you realized it wasn’t a game.  You enjoy living on some fantasy island, Spike, way too much to be anyone’s partner in the real world.”  

 

“Do you love me?”

 

She stopped pacing and turned to look at him. “What?”

 

Hands in his pockets, he rocked back on his heels.  “Simple question. You do or you don’t.”

 

She tried to speak then.  Knowing she must be looking like a gasping fish, she finally stammered:  “I - I don’t know.”

 

Spike nodded, then strolled around the island and leaned against it.  “I’ve been a fucking selfish bastard. Me going means you going. You leaving everything behind.  And if you already loved me, you’d go. No question. Because when you love, you give everything you are.  That’s why it scares the living hell out of you. Why you so rarely risk it. But to give up your job, your home, your friends for ‘I don’t know?’”  He shook his head. “It’s too much. I fucked up, yeah? You should be used to that. I’m a bloody terror to love, I know it. Just…part of me thought I could make you love me before I had to go.  Hope over inevitability, like you said. I’m sorry I ever tried; I only hope you can forgive me someday.” He finally looked up at her, pleading.

 

The detective’s heart pounded so hard she could barely breathe.  “I- Look, we- you’re right. Okay? That what you want to hear? There is something between us.  I think the past day proves that. Even though I don’t exactly know what it is, it’s worth - we’re worth - figuring it out.  However that can happen.”

 

“If I were a normal bloke with a normal job, a normal home - then yeah, we could spend the rest of our lives figurin’ each other out - goin’ to dinner, to the movies, takin’ our time.  Then, if you never loved me, well, there’d be no harm, no foul. At least we gave it a go and we’d move on. But my life isn’t normal. I’ll look it on the surface but scratch a layer down and I’m still the freak in the costume, in hiding and tryna blend in.”

 

She whipped away from him so he couldn’t see the tears forming.  “So, you don’t really love me. That was all a lie.”

 

“Don’t you get it, Buffy?” he exclaimed.  “It’s because I love you that I’m doin’ this.  I won’t force your hand. Not when it means the rest of your life.”

 

The detective huffed out a bitter laugh.  “Like you know my life.”

 

“I know that if you followed me now, you’d be runnin’ away - as you do when feelings get too close.  Shackin’ up with me would be just another one of your exercises - this one in hatin’ yourself - and I won’t let my love warp into that.  It’d tear me apart.”

 

“You picked a fucking shitty time to be noble, Spike.”  Her voice had gone to ice.

 

He sighed.  “Worse part is that I never would’ve done this before.  The old me would’ve let you use me for as long as it lasted.  But you make me want to be better. Even if I have to do it without you.  You know…” His voice turned up in hope. “You could come find me, Buffy. If you decided.  If you thought you could ever - ”

 

“Forget it,” she snapped.  Her voice echoed against the walls.

 

“All right then.  I’ll let myself out the back, take the side streets to the marina.  When I know Kyros is coming into town, I’ll call. That’s when it’ll all go down.”

 

Buffy walked over to her desk and pulled a box from the drawer.  She tossed the burner phone she’d promised him into his bag, and stepped back with her arms wrapped around herself.  “Call Faith. Her number’s programmed in there.”

 

“Right.  Faith. Got it,” he whispered.  “Buffy…”

 

“Spike, just save it, okay?”

 

“Just wanted to thank you, pet.  For… everything.”

 

She turned her back to him again.  “Don’t mention it.” After a moment, the door clicked closed.

 

Inside the detective’s head, however, the Slayer fully and completely wigged out.

 

_Oh HELL no.  You cannot let him leave like this.  You love him! You do. I can feel it, it’s coursing all through you - just like it did with Coach, just like it did with Buffy Anne.  And yeah, you’re scared and yeah, you’ve got a lot to figure out but you can do that_ with _him.  You_ have _to do that with him.  Hello? Are you listening? I’m throwing down the mother of all gauntlets here, lady, so perk up._

 

But the detective moved even further away from the door, sitting on the sofa and actually turning on the television, as though she could somehow tune out the Slayer.

 

_I know you can hear me.  I bet you’ve always been able to hear me.  Well, hear this, numbskull: this is_ him _, do you get it?  This is who he is:  the gangster. The criminal.  The mega-flawed dude who loves you.  There is no other Spike here. Understand?_ This _is what you have.  You accept him as he is - or you get nothing. Guess it’s a matter of how much the love means to you, lady, and I get to learn from you.  Fun._

 

And at that, the Slayer burst into the exact same outburst of tears the detective had already started on while sprawled across her sofa.  

 

If Gangster Spike had been a good guy, no way Detective Buffy would’ve met him.  It was because he was a criminal that she even knew his name. _Just like my Spike.  If he had stayed a man, he would’ve died and stayed dead over a century ago._  But he’d become - been forced, actually, into becoming a vampire and that was the only reason he’d played a part in her life at all.   

 

_I need to tell him it wasn’t his fault.  Getting turned. He said he’d changed and, all this time, I said I couldn’t believe that but, God, I don’t know anymore.  Maybe he can. Maybe he already has. He’s gone from hunting me, to hounding me, to holding down whatever of my fort still exists for me.  That’s a whole lot of change right there - and I’m not even conscious._

 

—

 

One of the many wonderful things about Faith was that when Buffy needed to talk, Faith listened.  

 

Buffy finished her tale of woe and chewed on her lip.  “What do you think?”

 

“Timing never was the dude’s strong suit.  Still, I think he’s right.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Uproot your whole existence to, what, date?  Try him on to see if he fits? No way.” Faith pulled one of the two remaining pieces of pizza from the box open on Buffy’s coffee table.  “Last one’s all you, B.”

 

Faith had arrived post haste following Buffy’s tearful phone call later that day, bringing their old Miami Breakup Kit, which included a chick flick movie rental, a six pack of beer, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, and pizza.   “You have to actually be dating someone to break up,” Buffy reminded her friend, but Faith had been adamant.  

 

“This counts.”

 

“I guess.”  Buffy plucked her fifth triple meat medley slice and dug in.  “Hey, have bacon, pepperoni and sausage always been this good and I’ve been kidding myself?”

 

“Pretty much.”  Faith opened her third beer and belched loudly.  “You’ve been kidding yourself about a lot. I get it - it’s the only way you could feel in control when everything’s going to shit.  You just didn’t know when to let up.”

 

“It felt good, too, you know?  Like I was doing something special by denying myself.  Like I was better than - stronger than - my want. It made me feel…invincible.  At a time when I really felt like fate’s personal punching bag.”

 

“You became your own punching bag.  Even the most hard-core mistress lets her pet have a happy eventually.  Otherwise, it’s just torture.”

 

_There’s foreplay and then there’s torture,_ the Slayer had told the Coach not too long ago.

 

“Faith…”  Buffy stopped chewing.  “What if I do love him?”

 

“Then you love him.  You tell him. You live.”

 

“Happily ever after,” Buffy added dismally.

 

“No, B.  That’s a bullshit fairy tale.  You’re gonna battle and you’re gonna piss each other off and you’re gonna push each other to every limit until you die.  Still, at the end of the day, there will be no one you’d rather curl up with. No one you’d rather cry with. No one you’d rather fuck.  That is so, like, rare and precious that when you get the chance, you go for it. No question. ‘Cause it doesn’t come around that often.”

 

Buffy dropped the crust on her plate and stared at her friend in shock.  “Jeez.”

 

Faith blushed and sucked down a swallow of beer.  “Yeah, a few weeks ago, this would’ve been a whole other pep talk.  I swear Spy Daddy’s makin’ me into a marshmallow.”

 

Buffy smiled.  “You’re in love.”

 

“Right back atcha.”

 

“But - ” 

 

Faith held up her hand.  “That’s how I know you made the right call.  ‘Cause the kind of love Spike wants doesn’t have any ifs, ands, or buts.  Until you can give him that, you’re better off workin’ on you.”

 

Buffy sipped on her own beer as she fretted.  “What if he’s assigned to live in, like, Utah?   I don’t know if could go to Utah. What if I wait too long and he hates me?  What if he falls in love with somebody else? What if the second I choose him, he decides I’m not worth it anymore?”  

 

“What if it all works out?  When you’re ready to answer that question, then you know you’re ready for him.”  Faith raised her beer. “To love, baby. Whatever it looks like, no matter which side it’s on, and however you can get it.”

 

Buffy clinked her bottle against her friend’s.  “To love.”

 

***

 

The days clicked on like the second hand on a clock - tick, tick, tick, - and the Slayer knew it was only a matter of time until, like Captain Faith would say, shit went “boom.”  The detective backslid into routine with the three exercise classes and the protein shake, but she’d axed the morning run and ate real lunches with real meat and, _alleluia,_ real cheese.  She used the last of her fresh orange juice to make a whopper tequila sunrise after work one night and started having a hard-boiled egg in the morning.  Thanks to no longer being “hangry,” the Slayer didn’t need to interrupt the detective’s nightly hammock snooze. It was kind of nice to fall asleep to sea air and waves crashing, then get woken up by sunrise.  The detective even began showering the moment she got back from the gym. _Kettle and pot, partners at last.  Even if you still don’t give me the time of day._

 

Back at the precinct, the detective warred with herself several times daily about calling the burner phone she gave Spike.  Too risky and what the hell was she going to say?  

 

_Uh, I miss you and I love you would be a good start._ But the Slayer knew she wasn’t ready for that.  Still, every time the detective closed her office door, she got sucker punched with guilt at the garment bag hanging on the hook behind it.  While anyone else might think it held her dress blues, only she knew that Oz’s prototype vests were secured inside. One belonged to her. What about the other one?

 

She marched down to Faith’s office and slammed the door behind her.

 

“Tell me to go eat a cheeseburger.”

 

Faith didn’t even pause from typing on her computer.  “Go eat a cheeseburger.”

 

“No, you know.  The way he would do it.”

 

Now her captain looked up.  “Sorry. I left my bullwhip at home.  Actually…” She leaned back in her chair, warming up to the topic.  “I always had myself pegged for a total top, you know? With Spy Daddy, I’m the queen of the pushy bottoms.  You would not believe how good it feels to give your body the night off when you trust the guy to know what he’s doing.”

 

Buffy glared.  “Ya think?”

 

Faith grinned.   “This mean you’re closer to telling Spike you love him?”

 

Buffy shook her head ‘no.’

 

“But you miss him.”  

 

A nod.  

 

“You not sayin’ jack shit doesn’t make it any less true, B.”

 

“I keep thinking of ways I could see him.  All of which involve him getting flushed out by Darla for conspiring with the police department.”  She paused. “There’s something else, too.”

 

“There always is.”

 

Buffy told her about the vests Oz had made.  “With this all going down, you should have one.”

 

Faith shook her head.  “I’m not gonna be on the line. You’re the one tasked with tailing Pratt, so you’re the two who need them.”

 

“But…”

 

“No ‘buts.’  You two have the highest risk of taking fire.”

 

“So how do I even get the vest to him now?” 

 

“I gotta think about this.”  Faith grabbed her purse from the floor.  “Now let’s go. I just got this weird craving for a cheeseburger all of a sudden.”

 

***

 

“I suppose we could haul him in for questioning.”

 

“For what?  The boat explosion was, like, weeks ago and he wasn’t in town.”

 

“I could set up another meet.”

 

“No, because he has to take a cab to get around.  The Tarakas will be on him like white on rice.”

 

Buffy and Faith walked back to the precinct from their burger fest while discussing ways to get the vest to Spike.

 

“I could call in a favor to our buddies at the Coast Guard, have them drum up some charges about his boat.  Haul him to their office and we meet him there.”

 

Buffy chewed on her lip.  “Maybe.”

 

“We’ll figure it out.  Don’t worry.” Faith’s phone rang just as they reached the precinct.  “Lehane.” She listened and her eyes grew large with disbelief. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.  Uh-huh. No. No, that don’t mean dick. Hey, if it’s a drunk and disorderly, it doesn’t matter who the perp is.  Uh-huh. Yeah, I’ll be here. Thanks, Rusty.” She dropped the phone back in her purse. “You’re gonna love this.”

 

“I’m almost afraid to ask.” 

 

“Rusty just responded to a call.  Seems Spike started a bar brawl at Platinum Plus.”

 

“What?”  Buffy’s eyes flew open and her mouth dropped open.  “A fight at a strip club? In the middle of the fucking afternoon?”

 

“Of course in the middle of the afternoon,” Faith replied quietly.  “He knows when you clock out. Anyway, Rusty called ‘cause Spike pitched a motherfucking fit, sayin’ he already did his time bein’ questioned and we could all quote ‘get stuffed’ unquote.  Sounds like he put on quite a show to ensure he’d get arrested.”

 

“He is a charmer.” Buffy sighed.  “You want me to handle him?”

 

“No.  You wanna handle him.  Here’s your chance.” Faith walked her toward the precinct’s back door.  “Looks like you weren’t the only one missing somebody.” 

 

***

 

Buffy power-walked to the locker room to pee and if she happened to refresh her lip gloss and fluff out her hair, she told herself it had nothing to do with the person she was about to interview.  On her way out, Faith met her in the hallway. “He’s here.” Buffy ducked inside her office to throw one of the vests into a plain shopping bag and headed back to Interrogation Room #1 - the original scene of the crime.

 

Spike’s eyes flew to the door the minute she opened it.  He had never looked more like a mobster in his dark pinstriped suit and polished brogues.  His reddish dress shirt was open at the throat and a bold red silk tie swung half-knotted around his neck.  A blue and purple bruise bloomed on his jaw and he dropped the ice pack he held to it when she walked in.

 

“There’s my girl,” he whispered, the expectation on his face breaking into a trembling smile.

 

“Spike - ” she began sharply and then stopped.  All the fight died out of her like the air leaking out of a balloon.  Her next words were barely audible: “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

 

“Givin’ in to my base desires,” he slurred slightly.  “I talk a good game but, let’s face it, I’m not _that_ noble.  Thought I’d go outta my mind if I didn’t see you.  Hear your voice. Feel your touch.”

 

“Hold that thought,” she muttered and crossed the room to unplug the security camera in the corner.  She sat down on the edge of the table next to him and in the next moment, he buried his face in her lap and breathed in her scent.  In her arms, finally, and Buffy struggled not to throw herself into his. His heat spread through her and she inhaled: the tang of his sweat mingled with the spices of his cologne, beer and whiskey, and that charred smell of burned herb with tobacco.  So familiar, so comforting, so him.

 

No eyes, no cameras.  No one saw him stroking her tender flank or heard her sigh, “Spike.  God, Spike.” No one witnessed how her fingers clutched his hair or listened to him humming against her ribs, “I love you, Buffy, I love you.  I missed you.” Talk about a different interrogation than the last time they’d met in this room. It seemed like a lifetime ago when she’d been so repressed and locked down and he taunted her all seductive and smug.  Spike had been in another country from her compared to now. Torn down to their singular want for one another, this meeting felt far more true. A swell of raw desire rose between them and broke through any walls she’d once fortified against him.  

 

She knew she had to hold the reins, though, with him being so far gone, and she distilled all her need for him into simply stroking his hair.  He felt sweaty and electric under her hand with a quiver of energy coursing through his veins. “Talk to me.”

 

“I’m a stupid, fucking prat,” he answered immediately.  “Thought I could give us each a taste, even knowin’ you didn’t love me, and that I could just walk away.  Burn worse than ever for you now. Can’t get dressed without wondering what color my Mistress would like to see me in.  Can’t sit down to eat without hearing how you moaned for me when I fed you.” He turned his head to her, his eyes glistening.  “You are eating now. Right, pet? You are looking after yourself?”

 

She swallowed hard and nodded.

 

“Good,” he breathed out.  “That’s a good girl. I’m so proud of you.  You know that’s what I want. You at your best.  Makes me so happy to think of you sittin’ down to some delectable spread and thinkin’ of me.  Fuck knows I can’t even make toast without thinkin’ of you.” 

 

God, how she ached for him. She cleared her throat.  “Tell me about this fight.”

 

“He started it.  I only finished it.”

 

“You could’ve walked away.”

 

“Then I wouldn’t get to see you.”  

 

“You didn’t try to egg someone on just to get arrested, did you?”

 

His expression was positively impish when he caught her eyes.  “First time was the charm, baby. He played right into my hands.  Couldn’t have orchestrated a better stunt if I wrote it m’self.”

 

“Spike, it’s dangerous for you to be here.  If you wanted to meet - ”

 

“It would’ve taken too long to set up,” he interrupted. Then he glanced at her shyly.  “I had to be with you. Couldn’t have lasted another day. I can see your candlelight on your deck, you know, from my boat.   It’s faint but know which star is mine. Wish upon you every night.”

 

Buffy closed her eyes, unwilling or unable to tell him how the only way she could fall asleep in her hammock was thinking of him out on the water somewhere, looking out for her in the only way he could.

 

“Please don’t make this harder,” she whispered instead.

 

“Buffy, you can always find me.  You know that, right?” His eyes were wide and frightened.  “Ten years from now you could come callin’ and I’d…” He exhaled heavily and sat up.  “I don’t know how to love anyone else and I don’t want to. So come find me. Please.”

 

After a quick knock on the door, Rusty stepped into the room and handed Buffy a folder.  “Neither the victim nor the owner of the establishment is pressing charges. Mr. Pratt’s free to go.”

 

“Thanks.”  She closed the door.  “Free to go,” she told Spike.

 

“Keep me overnight,” he begged.  “Throw me in the drunk tank.”

 

“Spike, no.  Darla will have a cow if she can’t put eyes on you.”

 

“I’d just tell her what I told her the last time I spent the night with you:  that I got lucky. Not a lie. Luckiest day of my life was when I met you.”

 

Buffy moved off the table to kneel in front of him, taking his trembling hands in hers.  “Stop.”

 

His whole body, which had been on high alert, suddenly relaxed.  He bowed his head. “Yes, Mistress.”

 

“You can’t do this again.  It’s not safe for either one of us.  Before you leave, take that.” She nodded to the shopping bag on the table.  “It’s for you. When Kyros comes to town - ”

 

“Friday,” he blurted, lifting his head.  “That’s what I meant to tell you. He’s arriving Friday.”

 

Her eyes widened.  “ _This_ coming Friday?”  Buffy’s mouth twisted wryly.  “Definitely no class reunion for me then.  That saves me the fifty dollar buffet ticket.  Have you gotten to see where they’re making the bullets?”

 

Spike shook his head.  “Kyros and his partner are sailing in on one of the cruise lines to the port.  Under aliases, of course. It’s smart. Fucking zoo there on the weekends, they won’t even be noticed.  I’ll have Batface’s car to pick them up, then we’re all to meet at my boat.”

 

“Dammit.  That doesn’t leave a lot of time.”

 

“Except for me coolin’ m’ heels at Port del Sol waitin’ for ‘em to disembark.”

 

She snapped to attention.  “That’s it. I’ll put a tracker on the car there.  Don’t worry, the Tarakas could have you on a frickin’ leash and they’d be none the wiser.”

 

His grunt sounded more like a growl.  “Like that thought, do you? Me on a leash?”  

 

“Friday,” she murmured, avoiding his eyes.  “That’s too close for comfort. You should’ve told me before now.”

 

“I only just found out today.  Decided to kill two birds with one stone.”

 

“Except you got distracted and almost didn’t tell me about the bigger bird.”

 

“Because I chose the better bird.  My bird. I’ll always choose you, you know.”

 

“I know,” she answered, but he’d already turned his attention to the contents of the shopping bag.

 

“We going snorkeling?”

 

“That is the only thing that will stop a Cop Duster, which I have no doubt all of your gang is packing by now.”

 

Spike lifted an eyebrow.  “So it’s a protective vest.”  He tossed the bag away in disgust.  “Bugger that.”

 

“ _What_?” 

 

“Call me a fuckin’ scrub, but I have a code.  We’re not you, Slayer,” he sneered savagely. “Never have been, never will be.  You’re the law and I’m what breaks it. I won’t use your guns, I won’t use your armor.  Ever.”  

 

She jumped up to brandish the vest in his face.  “Without this, it’s your ass. You want a future with me?  A sure-fire fucking way to ensure we won’t have one is for you to wind up dead.”

 

Spike knitted his fingers behind his head and stretched out in the chair.  “Any bullet in me is made for me and that’s destiny.”

 

“Give me a fucking break!” she railed.  “‘Death, glory, and sod all else?’ _That’s_ your code?  Your code’s for shit, Spike.  You have a means of protecting yourself - you use it.  End of story. Doesn’t matter where it comes from. I want you” - she leaned down until they met nose to nose - “to wear this and that’s an order.”

 

Spike met her eyes for one agonizing moment, his blue ones blazing.  “I know what you want, Mistress. Although, it occurs to me, we never did agree on a safe word.”

 

Slowly, she drew back.  “You actually need a safe word for this?”

 

“I want to stop the scene.  And yeah, it’s my right.”

 

“It’s your fucking right?” she hissed.  “To what, commit suicide? Not on my watch.”  She tossed the vest on the table and paced in front of him.  “You’re done. You’re no longer a C.I., you’re off this case, and I am taking you into custody.”

 

Spike rose to his feet.  “Except you don’t have a thing on me, do you? Like you said, I’m free to go.”

 

Torn, scared, and beyond frustrated, Buffy clamped a hand over her eyes as though she couldn’t bear to look at him.  Her fury drained away leaving desperation clutching at her throat. “Spike, just take the vest. Take it so I can say I gave it to you.  So I can say I tried. Please just fucking take it.”

 

In one fell swoop, he clamped his hand on the back of her neck and drew their foreheads together.  “Yes, Mistress,” he choked, kissed her hard on the mouth, stuffed the vest into the bag under his arm, and left the room.

 

***

 

“Hey.”  Faith came in and shut the door.  The detective sat like a stone in the seat Spike had vacated with her lips still burning.

 

“I take full responsibility for the camera malfunction,” Buffy began but her captain stopped her.

 

“Straight up, you should know that Spike spooked the hell outta me today.  I know you said he’s not a liability. Still, with the shit he pulled…” Faith shook her head.  “He’s impulsive to, like, the nth degree. He knows what’s on the line and he still couldn’t control himself, nearly blowing his cover just to make moon eyes at his crush.  I’m down with true love, but this shit is dangerous.”

 

“He’s not gonna wear the vest,” Buffy said numbly, staring at the wall.  “Apparently, there’s some ‘code’ I wasn’t privy to. Which means, if the Tarakas start shooting, he’s gone-zo.”

 

“Buffy, we’ll haul him in before that happens.”

 

“How?”  Buffy demanded.  “I can’t keep putting him first if he won’t even do it for himself. If he can’t take basic safety precautions then…”  Her resolve failed and she turned to her friend, who caught her shoulders and drew her in for a hug.

 

“This is my last op, Faith.  No more,” she sobbed.

 

“I know, B.  I’m sorry I made you come back.”

 

“No, I’m glad you did.  I never would’ve known what I was missing.  I’m trying to tell myself that even if I lose him, at least he loved me.  That’s more than a lot of people get. More than…”  

 

“Buffy, give it a minute, okay?”  Faith drew Buffy back and touched her cheek.  “Let’s just see what the next steps of this little dance are gonna be.”

 

“Friday night, just in time for my class reunion.”  Buffy smirked sadly. “That’s when Kakistos and company are sailing in.  The meet’s set.”

 

Faith’s eyes widened.  “This Friday? That doesn’t leave a lot of time but all right.”  She glanced at Buffy. “Are _you_ all right?” 

 

“I will be.”  Tears drying, Buffy straightened and steeled her resolve.  “Let’s fucking dance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it wasn't until I began to post this chapter that I realized my songlists heavily influenced the writing here. "I wish I could make it easy to love me" is from the "Waves" remix by Mr. Probz, which I probably listened to a gazillion times because it made me think of Gangster Spike. "You are the sun and I am just the planets" is from Fall Out Boy's "Last of the Real Ones," which is a Spuffy song if I ever heard one. 
> 
> There's a hint of a Spike line to Fred from the Angel Season 5 Episode 4 "Hellbound." Buffy echoes a line from Season 6 Episode 12 "Doublemeat Palace."
> 
> The word "gone-zo" isn't mine. It came from the Veronica Mars movie circa 2014 (before they bollixed that world all to hell and lost me as a fan forever but I totally digress. The most recent continuation of THAT series is why I'll only write happy endings from here on out because that was heartbreaking and awful. 'Nuff said.).

**Author's Note:**

> Buffy dialogue from Season 6, Episode 3 “After Life”


End file.
